


Pursuit of the Whole

by alby_mangroves, sirsable



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pacific Rim (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst, Art, Battle, Beginner-friendly intro to Pacific Rim, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Desperate Sex, Do not need to have seen the movie to read!, Embedded Images, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake Science, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Art, Jaegers (Pacific Rim), Kaiju, Kaiju (Pacific Rim), M/M, Mecha, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Please do not repost art or fic, Protective Bucky Barnes, Temporary Character Death, The Drift (Pacific Rim), Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirsable/pseuds/sirsable
Summary: Steve Rogers and James Barnes grew up together, enlisted in the Jaeger Academy together, and graduated as rangers together. After a mission ends in disaster, Steve drops off the grid in search of tenuous peace. But when a terrible new threat arises, duty draws him back to his former post despite the painful memories it holds. There, fate shows him that he may not be so lost after all.*Although this is Pacific Rim AU, you donotneed to have watched the movie to follow this story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This is a Pacific Rim AU, but I have done my very best to make it beginner-friendly. If you haven't seen the movie but you like monsters, mecha, and/or Guillermo del Toro, then I highly recommend it!**
> 
> Thank you so, so much to the talented and hardworking alby, who not only did so much art for this humble fic, but also modded the bang on top of it. How they do it the world may never know.
> 
> Also to the ever-lovely [coldwinterrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldwinterrose/pseuds/coldwinterrose) who is literally the best beta in the world and has put up with so much from me, including actual tears. Could never have finished without you!
> 
> And my darling [withinmelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinmelove/pseuds/withinmelove) who helped make sure I stayed sane and also was the brave soul who read this without ever watching a single minute of Pacific Rim, ensuring that I made this is close to stand-alone as humanly possible.
> 
> 11/20/19: Editing for formatting errors.

_Kaiju—so termed after the monsters in the Japanese genre of the same name—are a class of creature with unknown origins and purpose. They emerge into the world through what scientists theorize is a rift between dimensions. Known as the Breach, this rift is located in the Marianas Trench, giving kaiju access to land all along the Pacific Rim. Typically ranging from 100 to 250 feet in height, all kaiju, regardless of individual variation, have tough skin that can withstand impact equivalent to anti-aircraft missiles. However, the death of a kaiju does not mean the end of the threat. The toxin known as Kaiju Blue is found in their blood and viscera and poses a serious problem to cleanup crews and surrounding organic life, as well as contaminating soil and water if left untreated. The first kaiju—_

“Are they going to teach us anything we didn’t learn in grade school?” a cadet whispers to Steve’s right. And, honestly, Steve is tempted to agree. Being given basic lessons in what amounts to fifth-grade science isn’t what he thought he was signing up for when he joined the Pan Pacific Defense Corps.

The door to the classroom slams open and the instructor, an imposing man with a crew cut and sharp jaw, sweeps into the room. “You’re going to learn a lot of things, cadet,” he barks out. Jesus, was he just outside the door listening in on them?

The cadet in question stands up hastily, posture stiff and eyes forward. He snaps a hasty salute. “Miller, sir—”

“I didn’t ask for your name. Sit down.” Miller sits and the instructor stalks up and down the rows of desks. “In fact, I’m not going to ask for any of your names, because a solid quarter of you are going to either leave or fail out of the program in the first three months. I have better things to do than memorize faces I won’t even see after a semester.

“Now, what I _do_ want to know is why you think you need the refresher on kaiju history and biology?”

To Steve’s surprise, Bucky’s hand goes up. He’s not usually one to antagonize authority and this instructor doesn’t really talk like he wants an answer. “Know thine enemy?”

“Well, well, well. An answer that _doesn’t_ make me regret rolling out of bed this morning. That’s correct. And let me be clear: kaiju are _always_ the enemy, even if you’re not a ranger. Just because you don’t face one head-on doesn’t mean you can afford to forget the threat they pose.”

“Fat chance of that happening,” someone mutters. But when the instructor looks around, everyone continues to stare at their desks.

“So. How many of you are here to join the Jaeger Program? Become a Ranger?”

At least half the hands in the room go up, including Steve and Bucky’s.

“And keep your hand up only if you’ve lost someone _because of_ a kaiju.”

Steve lost his father when he was five, back when the Coastal Wall was being touted as the next big thing. Because the creatures only ever emerged from the Pacific, the thought was that a wall around the circumference of the Pacific Rim, their normal hunting grounds, would successfully isolate the kaiju and keep humanity safe. The UN had such confidence in it that they defunded the previously-strong Jaeger Program—the project that provided pilots and upkeep of the massive, weaponized robotic platforms specially crafted to counteract kaiju. Jaegers were too expensive to make and maintain, Wall proponents argued, and pilots too costly and time-consuming to train. Cancellation of the program passed by nearly three-quarters vote, closing the jaeger-hangars known as Shatterdomes within mere months. So when the Wall fell in its first-ever encounter with a kaiju, only regular military were left to attempt to neutralize the threat—something history had already proven to be a bloody and gruesome affair. 

Steve’s father had been an air force pilot at the time, and the base he’d been stationed at was one of the first to mobilize. Steve can only vaguely remember his mother’s barely-hidden fear and his father’s steady voice on the phone telling them not to worry; that he loved them both and he’d see them soon.

That was the only lie Joseph Rogers ever told his son.

“First of all, I’m sorry for your loss,” the instructor says, ducking his head for a moment out of respect. When he turns, Steve can make out his name badge—O’Hara. “But second, of you who still have your hands up, less than a quarter of you will find success as Rangers.”

Bucky’s hand darts out and grabs Steve’s wrist to ground him and, more likely, keep him from doing or saying something rash. Steve and Bucky practically grew up together, and he can almost hear his best friend telling him to calm down; to pick his battles. Steve clenches his jaw until it hurts.

“I can see that’s gotten under some of your skins.” O’Hara sounds pleased with himself. “And maybe it should. Can someone _please_ tell me why not having your mind together when you go into the Drift is a bad thing?”

Another classmate raises her hand. “You’ll drag your partner into your memories?”

The instructor nods. “Or scare them off. Or fail to engage at all.” He turns to face the class again, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Because no matter what you got taught in after-school specials or documentaries or movies, the Drift isn’t like some little cable connecting your brains together and hooking you up to a jaeger’s neural interface. The Drift opens up your _mind_ to someone else, and people—humans—” he gives a humorless laugh “—well, we aren’t normally built to have someone else in there. The mind protects itself. So, if you’ve got too much to hide, it’ll try to close off, keep anyone from getting in. If you think too different, move too different, can’t trust who you got in that Conn-Pod with you, you can kiss the neural handshake goodbye. _Yes_ , cadet?”

The girl looks startled—O’Hara hadn’t even turned to look at her, but she’s the only one with a hand raised. “Difference between the Drift and the handshake, sir?”

“Think of the Drift as a boat on a river. Lean too far to one side, refuse to cooperate with your partner, and you’ll fall out. Boat’s not going to go anywhere. Drift terminated. The handshake would be more like dropping an anchor. You stop needing to steer and you can hold steady, but jostle your partner too hard and you can still knock it out of alignment. Still lose the connection you made in the Drift. It’s not good enough just to get to a stable neural handshake—you need to keep it there, keep it in alignment, no matter what."

It’s like Instructor O’Hara is issuing a challenge. Like he’s daring the class to prove him wrong. Statistically, Steve knows that he’s right: that only one in four in cadets who initially sign up for the Jaeger Program qualify to be Rangers. Of those, many fail to find compatible partners to Drift with right away, forcing them to wait until new pilots are trained or transferred. For some of them, the wait will chafe too much and they might re-train to join the control center or ground and air support. But Steve is determined—has been since the Jaeger Program was rebooted after the Wall catastrophe—that he will be one of the ones who makes it.  
  


* * *

  
  
Bucky finds him hidden away in one of the repair bays, staring up at the jaeger currently being serviced.

“Breaker Rogue,” Steve says quietly.

“New one, isn’t it?” Bucky asks. He settles in next to Steve, close enough that they can lean on each other without moving. “You thinking about how you wanna pilot it?”

“Kind of.”

“Thinking about what the instructor said?” he guesses again.

After his own mother, Bucky has always understood Steve best. “I’m gonna make it. We both are. And then we’re gonna pilot one of these. Protect people. Make a difference.” His grief is still a little too raw, and he can hear the bitterness bleed from the edges of his words.

His mother, Sarah, died just after Steve turned eighteen. A nurse, she volunteered to go to a settlement built too close to the Wall that had been partially crushed by the remaining structure. 

Stupid to build their homes there, Steve thinks, and his mother and the other relief workers were the ones who had to pay the price.

Still, it probably would have been like any other relief effort except for a kaiju attack that drenched inhabitants in Kaiju Blue. Even with the Defense Corps on the scene, there wasn’t enough ‘Blue Neutralizer to save everyone. He’d rushed to her side as soon as he could, but even so Steve barely made it in time to say goodbye. He paid to bring her home and have her laid to rest near his dad. There wasn’t much point in sticking around where he was without her. He had enough money to make it for a while in their old home—long enough to sell what he could and take care of their last few bills—but he was only waiting to join the Jaeger Program and he knew it. He’d always wanted to follow in his dad’s footsteps if he could, defending other people and saving the world. Sarah’s death had only cemented it; acted as a catalyst for him to finally pick himself up and go.

What he hadn’t necessarily expected, when he left, was for Bucky to follow him. Bucky was suave and intelligent and had a family that loved him. Even in these hard times, they had enough money to send him to a proper school. But he’d gone with Steve to a recruiter and filled out the forms same as him.

_“She was special to me, too, Stevie. And if something happened to you because I wasn’t there to stop you, I’d never forgive myself.”_

“I know, pal,” Bucky says, snapping Steve back to the present. He butts his head against Steve’s affectionately, trying to lighten the mood. “Sucks for the others, though. There’s only ten ranger-candidates in the class and we’re two successes between us. Barely room for another.”

It coaxes a reluctant grin from the blond, which is probably what Bucky was aiming for.

“Hey, no cadets allowed unless you’re with an instructor.”

Bucky and Steve scramble to stand up and face whoever’s caught them, but the guy sounds more amused than angry. He’s older than either of them, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, but he’s not wearing the kind of clothes that would mark him as a ranger. Actually, he looks like he might be control staff except for the smudges of grease—and are those _burns?_ —on his smart clothes. His tie is loose and flipped over his shoulder and his access badge is so smudged that Steve can’t make out his title.

“We were just admiring the latest model, sir,” Bucky’s saying, smiling and turning up the charm. Steve has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he can’t deny that Bucky’s method works. Growing up, he talked them out of trouble almost as fast as Steve talked them into it. 

_Almost._

The man laughs with surprised delight. “Sir! Oh, man, that’s cute. Very cute.” He shakes his head. “No, just call me Tony. Or ‘you bastard.’ That’s my nickname around here, said fondly, I can assure you. Come on.”

Tony beckons and Steve and Bucky trade looks. They follow obediently, though, trotting after Tony as he strides across the room to an elevator. “Can’t appreciate her properly from that distance. It’s in the _details_ , they should teach you that. Every jaeger has armor plating and fancy bits—don’t get me wrong, I love that shit, too. Damn, and Breaker Rogue, she’s got one hell of a silhouette.” Tony’s hands wave as he gestures in the air. “I’m proud of getting that design pushed through, I really am. But it’s the _details_ that are the genius of it.”

Breaker Rogue is a modest height for a jaeger, topping out, Tony explains, at a little over two hundred and forty feet. Most other models are taller than her, and some are bulkier as well, but this one in particular was designed for agility.

“She’s not made to just bash kaiju to death. Not that she _can’t_ —it’d just be a waste of her design. She’s got two retractable blades…” Steve gets the idea that Tony is an engineer of some type because he brings up a model of the jaeger on his tablet to show off, and they flank him in order to share the screen properly.

Tony takes them for a close look at Breaker Rogue’s arms, where he shows off the state-of-the-art hydraulics that will deploy her knives with enough force to pierce a kaiju hide as well as superheating to seal off the wounds.

“It’s a trade-off,” the engineer explains, frowning a little. “Bleeding them out is arguably more effective, but the impact of Kaiju Blue is hard to ignore. I’m hoping the heat is high enough to do more harm than good. But I guess you kids are the ones who’ll figure that part out for me, huh?”

Steve grins hugely, even though Breaker Rogue is ready to launch soon and it’ll be years before he or Bucky get a crack at piloting one of their own. Bucky rolls his eyes fondly at Steve’s expression and follows Tony into the Conn-Pod.

“Where the magic happens,” Tony declares, gesturing expansively. “Bet you haven’t been in one yet.”

And it’s here where even Bucky, playing at being cool like he is, lights up. Cadets get simulation cradles, not the real deal, and there’s something exciting about being in a live cockpit regardless of whether or not it’s powered up. It’s cramped with all three of them in there, so Tony hangs back toward the entrance while they look around in wide-eyed fascination. And then—

“Stark!” a sharp voice barks just outside. Tony jumps and flails his hands— _hide! hide!_ —before turning around, taking up as much of the doorway as he can. Bucky ducks partway into the manual escape hatch and Steve dives in after him, stifling a nervous giggle when he almost falls flat on his face. 

“Nick!” they hear Tony yell heartily. “Finally came to give me the recognition I deserve, I see!”

“Just a few years, Bucky.” Steve’s eyes gleam as he takes in the Pod from their hiding place. Outside, Tony is obviously trying to lure someone away before they all get in trouble, but Steve barely notices. “Then we’ll be in a jaeger of our own. Then, we’ll get to make a _real_ difference.”

“If we don’t get expelled first,” Bucky mutters. But he’s grinning as he knocks his head against Steve’s. “I think we’re clear. Let’s get the hell out of here, Rogers.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Steve practically vibrates with anticipation. Years of training—in hand to hand, weapons, kaiju biology, basic mechanics, linguistics, anything a ranger and any of their support crew could possibly need—have finally come to a head. As promised, only a handful of their class have made it all the way through the ranger program, but now… _Now_ they’re in the pool of candidates awaiting assignment into piloting teams. Even including people from the two years ahead of them and from the sister-facilities in Russia and Australia, there are still less than twenty of them all told. These are the people who are going to fight alongside them as humanity’s first line of defense. Any and all of them are going to have to be people Steve is willing to trust with his life.

“Your mom’d be proud a’ you,” Bucky whispers. He leans subtly against Steve, reminding him that he’s right there. “ _I’m_ proud a’ you, if that counts any.”

It counts a lot, and Bucky knows it. Steve doesn’t say anything—just nudges back to show that he heard and appreciates it. He sincerely hopes that Bucky is right. That he’ll actually _be_ someone they can be proud of, because he’s not quite cleared the bar yet. He still doesn’t know if he can handle the Drift, and when he manages that, if he and Bucky will be able to properly handle a jaeger. Because of _course_ it’s Bucky—it’s always been Bucky. They grew up together, joined together, fight together. That kind of closeness is hard to manufacture, and it would have been more surprising if they'd been split up, even if they did participate in all the matching exercises alongside the rest of their peers.

The first pair to try the sim can’t even initiate the Drift. The instructor has to dismiss them when one gets so frustrated that he yanks off his helmet, causing the cradle sim to light red and claxons to go off. The second pair get caught when one of them chases the rabbit—Random Access Brain Impulse Triggers—as Trainer O’Hara had warned them about on their first day. The instructor and technician have to forcibly turn off the simulator, and the instructor takes the time during the reset to remind everyone why latching on to a single memory, while tempting, is something to be avoided.

“You’ve trained for this,” he repeats. “Focus on the goal. Don’t play keep-away with yourself, but don’t chase down memories, either. Modesty reflex will kick you out even faster than chasing the rabbit will. If you start to panic, try not to drag your partner in, too. Remember that someone else is relying on you.” Several of them shift uncomfortably. “If you can’t handle the pressure now, there’s no way you’ll be able to do it in front of LOCCENT inside a real Conn-Pod. Get your heads on straight, cadets, or you’ll never make ranger. Barnes and Rogers!”

He’s right—this is nothing compared to knowing that everyone in the Local Command Center could watch him fail in a real jaeger. Steve wipes his sweaty palms on his legs and straightens his back, going forward to let the tech latch him into the cradle. He won rock-paper-scissors, so Bucky lets him take the right side, normally reserved for the dominant pilot. Most of the other teams played strategy games or competed in sparring matches to determine dominance, but Steve likes to think that he and Bucky handled themselves well.

“Initiating Drift on my mark,” he hears through the comm-piece in his helmet. He has a second to glance at Bucky; return his quick thumbs-up before, “Three, two, one. Mark!”

_First grade and Blake Young pushes him down and the burn of skin breaking and dirt grinding into open wounds_  
_Bucky kisses Tracy King and her lips are squishy and soft and it’s embarrassing and gives him kind of a squirmy feeling, guess this is why people do it, maybe I’ll like it better later_  
_Momma baking and singing,_ Stevie, baby, do you want to bring some of this to your new friend _and_ Yes, momma, his name is Bucky and did I tell you he’s almost a whole year older than me  
_Becca runs and gets behind a tree and Bucky can’t reach her but he lunges around it anyway just to hear her shriek, it’s shrill and piercing but she’s having so much fun  
Sunburn itching across his shoulders and it hurts where Bucky slings his arm over him but he isn’t going to say anything because then Bucky would pull back and he doesn’t want to lose that closeness, no, he’s so close that his eyes look huge and Steve can almost feel Bucky’s smile on his own face, if he just leans in—_

The simulation shuts down abruptly as Steve’s heart jumps into his throat, throwing both of them out of the Drift so fast that he physically staggers. He can hear a loud buzz even through the insulation of his helmet and he reaches up shakily to remove it. The technician is there, unhooking him while out of the corner of his vision he can see Bucky shaking his own head and looking around blearily, not quite sure what’s going on.

“Made it further than the others so far,” Bucky tells him philosophically, after they’ve been unhooked from the simulator and told to wait with the cadets who have had their turn. “They did say it common not to make a solid handshake the first time.” He turns to Steve, eyeing him critically before frowning in concern. “Hey, you all right? You look sick. You want more water?”

Steve refuses his offer. He feels sick all right, but not from the simulation. He _knows_ why they didn’t make it far into the simulation; knows why they got thrown out the way they did. It’s _his_ fault they failed on their first try, because you’re supposed to trust your partner. You’re supposed to open up to them and accept them into your mind; let them see who you are inside and trust that they won’t shy away or shut you out, and that you’ll extend the same courtesy to them. And he thought he could do that. He _should_ be able to do that, _especially_ with Bucky. But he can’t. He can’t, because he’s hiding something from his best friend, and that secret is big enough to stop them both. Big enough to endanger their dreams of becoming rangers. Big enough to stand between them.

Steve Rogers is in love with Bucky Barnes.  
  


* * *

  
  
Two more failed simulations later and Steve is at a loss for what to do. Half of the others have managed, and they’ve reached the point where their instructors are re-evaluating potential partnerships. Just because you _can_ Drift with someone doesn’t mean you _will_ , and while many pilots do tend to keep the same partner for their entire careers, that doesn’t mean they can’t Drift or have a stronger handshake with someone else. Steve’s fucking it all up for them, and by this afternoon, if he doesn’t _do_ something about it, he’s going to have to find another partner and he just… can’t really imagine that happening. Putting his life in anyone else’s hands feels wrong.

But so does being rejected. What if Bucky hates him? Or, not hate precisely, because he can’t imagine Bucky hating him for something like that. But what if it’s too awkward? What if he feels _pity_ for Steve? In the Drift, whatever Bucky feels, Steve will be able to feel too, and he doesn’t know if he can stay centered if he has to feel that coming from his oldest and best friend. And if Bucky rejects him enough, is disgusted enough, they won’t be able to hold the handshake anyway. Maybe it really will be better if they find different Drift partners. It’s not like they can't keep being friends, after all. Or maybe Steve can work his way through it somehow. Or maybe… maybe…

“Stevie, I need to talk to you.”

He can feel his heart sink to his boots when he looks up to see the grim expression on Bucky’s face. Bucky’s figured it out, then. That something’s wrong with Steve; that he’s the one who’s been sabotaging them this whole time. Maybe not on purpose, but there’s no way he won’t be upset.

And, he thinks as Bucky leads him to an empty classroom for privacy, he wouldn’t blame him. It can’t be a great feeling, being able to sense that someone you’ve known almost your whole life is keeping something from you that hard, but might be able to share it with a total stranger. But… even if Bucky forgives him or lets it go; even if he quietly accepts a new partner and agrees that they can remain friends… Doesn’t Steve kind of owe him an explanation?

“It’s about the simulations,” Bucky starts. “How we can’t Drift.”

Steve decides that there’s no point in running. Not if it’s going to lead to this anyway, because he’s got nothing to be ashamed of. Being in love with someone as wonderful as Bucky isn’t something he regrets or feels guilty about. In fact, he’s damn proud, because if you ask him there’s no one better. Bucky’s mouth is already open—to accuse or question, Steve doesn’t know—and if he waits any longer Steve doesn’t know if the opportunity will pass him by.

“I love you,” he says, probably much too loudly considering they’re the only people in the room, but he has to make sure he gets it in first and before Bucky can go on. “I mean, I’m _in_ love with you,” he adds, because he doesn’t want to leave any room for doubt about what he means.

Bucky’s expression cycles quickly through surprise, then shock, then upset, and Steve braces himself just in time for Bucky to sock him on the shoulder. Just enough to sting but not nearly as hard as he thought he’d get.

“You punk! _I_ was gonna say that!”

“You knew I was in love with you?”

“No! I was gonna say that _I’m_ in love with _you_! Punk!” he repeats, and smacks Steve on his other arm before laughing and drawing him into a crushing hug. “Jesus, we’re both idiots.”

It takes a few seconds to fully sink in, but when it does, giddy relief washes over him, and he tucks his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck to rub against the soft skin there, laughing while the brunet holds him close and ruffles his hair. God, it feels so natural, and maybe they could have been doing this sooner. Bucky’s right: they _are_ idiots. Apparently, idiots in love.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” Bucky declares. “Because I oughta get to beat you at _something_.”

So what else can Steve do other than kiss him first, taking Bucky’s face in his hands and pressing forward blindly, noses bumping together and teeth clacking in his eagerness. Bucky makes a happily protesting sound and takes control for them both, adjusting the angle of their heads and the pressure of their lips. They kiss until Bucky pulls away, laughing, and says, “You need work,” and Steve has about half a second to be hurt by that before Bucky continues with, “So I guess I’ll have to teach you,” and dives right back in. 

“Natural talent,” Bucky declares long minutes later, Steve practically lying on a desk with Bucky’s lean body pressing down on him, his grey eyes sparkling with happiness.

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve resists the urge to preen, rolling his eyes instead. “We need to get back before they miss us.”

“Like you didn’t start it.”

“You’re the one who dragged me here,” Steve points out. 

Bucky looks ridiculously pleased with himself. “I sure did. Tell me you regret it,” he challenges.

Steve hip-checks him straight into the door frame. “You know I don’t.” And then he blushes bright red when Bucky reaches down and hooks their pinkies together, swinging their hands back and forth.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Finding a copilot isn’t an exact science,” the simulation tech advises kindly. “So if this doesn’t work out, it doesn’t mean anything except that you try again.” She’s trying to put Steve’s mind at ease, and he appreciates it even though he doesn’t need it now.

“On my mark.”

Steve shakes out his hands and breathes deep, preparing himself for the flash of disorientation he knows is coming. Focus, he reminds himself. Don’t latch onto any memories. Keep yourself open. Trust in your partner.

“Three. Two. One.”

He closes his eyes.

“Mark!”

_Hi, I’m Bucky, what’s your name, I’m Steven Grant Rogers, Wow that’s a great name, Yeah what’s it to you_  
_coughing wet and awful and the IV itches in his hand but he’s not allowed to touch it, Don’t touch it baby, it’s there to help you_  
Hey Stevie, you don’t look so good, you’re not gonna die are you, _and he’s scared to be here because it smells funny but he’s gotta stay because Steve is there_  
_Holding really still, don’t move or he’ll ruin the drawing but his nose really itches and Steve starts laughing because he’s probably making a face trying not to sneeze and_  
_Sitting on a roof and looking out and knowing just like that, holy shit this kid, this kid, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore, that must’ve been the start and he knows it now but he didn’t know it then—_

Then there’s something almost like warmth, almost like pressure, almost like melting and melding and reforming so that—at least for now—there is no longer a _Steve_ and a _Bucky_ , but instead just _SteveandBucky_. He can feel his love for Bucky and Bucky’s love for him shining back at him like an electric arc. He barely has to think of a thing and he does it, both him and not-him, who is also Bucky, and not-Bucky, who is him.

“Neural handshake strong and holding.”

They look up; open their eyes. Look down at their hands and make a fist, then reach for the hand controls. Grasp, lock, pull.

“Status: Ready for go.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Kaiju is Japanese for “strange beast.” It’s now considered a film genre rife with amazing monsters such as Mothra, Godzilla, Rodan, and even King Kong. Essentially, if it’s a large monster or beast that shows up for unexplained reasons and wreaks havoc on mankind, it’s probably a kaiju.
> 
> Title taken from a translation of a line from Plato's _Symposium_ : "Love is simply the name for the desire and pursuit of the whole.”
> 
> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

The claxons in the Shatterdome go off at some ungodly hour of the morning, startling Steve out of a deep sleep. Bucky shoots upright, dragging the snarled covers with him and nearly smacking Steve in the face when he flails his arms in an attempt to catch his balance. Steve’s already scrubbing at his face and rolling out of bed, heading for their tiny sink to gulp down some water. Behind him, he can hear Bucky fumble open their drawers to retrieve the first layer of their drivesuits.

_“Breach-like activity detected. We’re still waiting on confirmation of a kaiju reading, but a vessel’s been spotted and it’ll need backup if something slithers out of there. You two up yet?”_

Bucky, half-in and half-out of his circuitry suit, smacks the button to their intercom. “Hard to miss that sound. Hangar in five.”

“Maybe it’s a false alarm,” Steve suggests. He tosses Bucky his first shin-plate and sits to start strapping on his own.

“And maybe I ain’t queer,” Bucky retorts. “It’s settling. They’re calling it the Aleutian Breach already.”

“I live in hope.” The last thing the world needs is a second Breach, but activity in this area has been on the rise for the last two years. It’s how they ended up here in the first place, lead team in the brand-new Nome Shatterdome, the first one to incorporate more than one nation. It’s a huge honor and responsibility, and they’d jumped at the chance to be part of it.

“You’ve earned it,” Bucky tells him, kissing him on the cheek before handing over his breastplate for Steve to fix for him. “World’s going to shit and you’re still looking at the best side of it.”

“Ah, not too hard with your ugly mug hovering. Makes everything look sunnier in comparison.”

Bucky laughs and shoves at him. “Fuck you.”

“Sure, after,” he replies easily. Bucky shakes his head and tightens the last few straps on Steve’s drivesuit. To anyone on the outside looking in, the two of them are probably taking this much too lightly. But everyone reacts to that jolt of fear and adrenaline differently. Some pilots slip into a meditative trance, some get aggressive, some pray, some become grave. Steve’s lucky that he’s got Bucky, who will distract him with banter and easy flirting until they hit the hangar, then either let him crash out or burn off the extra adrenaline after. But from the moment they see their jaeger to the time they bring it safely back to the Shatterdome, the pilots of Guardian Aegis are consummate professionals, alert and focused on the objectives at hand. Marshal Fury knows it and that’s probably why, despite being less senior than other applicants, he placed them on the list for the Nome posting.

They make it to the hangar in exactly five minutes, still tightening their gauntlets and settling into the headspace that will help establish a neural connection as quickly as possible. The other two pilots in residence, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, meet up with them while Marshal Fury himself catches them up.

“Kaiju activity confirmed, but the water displacement readings weren’t very stable. It’s either a size category III or IV.”

“That’s a lot of variance,” Steve remarks, accepting his helmet from a tech. Size categories are separated by hundreds of tons of water displacement, which can indicate overall size, even if it does nothing to help with weight or lethality. But because kaiju are rarely the same, even the meager statistics their sensors can scrounge are better than nothing and could mean the difference between life and death.

“Best we can do. Not all the equipment is in place—still having a hell of a time convincing the UN to release funds for the full array.”

“Politics,” Bucky scoffs. Steve tends to agree. They’re soldiers, not politicians—they just want to do their jobs and keep people safe, keep the world moving on maybe just a little better than before.

“We won’t get funding unless we play the game,” Fury shrugs. “Silver Hex is going with you. Seas are rough and we want someone to escort the ship into the safe zone, so we need both of you this time. Loadout in seven, gentlemen.”

Techs do the last-minute checks on their drivesuits and lay in the specialized spinal clamps that make up the final piece, the connection making the hair on the back of Steve’s neck stand up. In moments, they’re loaded in and the Conn-Pod is being lowered into their jaeger. Under them, the core hums to life. The Pod lights up and displays flicker in front of them. Steve can feel the chill radiating from the relay gel being piped through his helmet and back into the cradle.

_:Communications check.:_

“Confirmed,” Steve and Bucky chorus, so accustomed to the procedure that they don’t need to Drift to know what each other is thinking.

 _:Confirmed,:_ the twins agree.

_:Kaiju has broken the surface at least once. We’re going to drop you both eight miles off the coast to intercept the ship, but try to hold him at mile nine. Initiating neural handshake in three…:_

Steve settles his feet. Focuses on the way he draws breath into his lungs.

_:…Two…:_

He doesn’t need to look to see that Bucky is frowning at the still-blank display in front of them, preparing for the disorientation of the Drift.

 _:…One.:_  
  


* * *

  
  
It takes nearly another hour for the helos air-dropping them to make it their destination along the designated Miracle Mile.

 _:Kaiju, designation Scaleback, will be at the designated zone in approximately twenty seconds,:_ LOCCENT informs them. Steve and Bucky absorb the impact of their landing carefully, barely registering the release of cables from their transport. It’s pouring out here, rain in vicious sheets dumping from the sky like God’s wrath. 

The kaiju erupts from the ocean, water cascading down its body, and for some reason Steve’s first thought is that it’s smaller than he expected. They turn on instinct, Steve’s mouth open to relay their next move when—

 _:Taking point!:_ The other jaeger is already past them, chrome reflecting brightly every time lightning flashes, shining like a star even against the torrents of rain. 

“Get back here you two!” Steve and Bucky bark, unease from one or both of them flaring through the Drift and making their tempers sharp. Bucky swears. “Dammit, we haven’t planned—”

 _:No, this formation is ideal. Guardian Aegis, escort the_ Hopeful Endeavor _to safe harbor. Stay on guard in case it slips past,:_ LOCCENT mission control commands.

“Floodlights on,” Steve grumbles. They grit their teeth against the effort of pushing through the choppy water. Who the hell tries to skirt across the Rim in this weather? Kaiju alerts are only accurate for within a few hours. Taking a ship out in a storm when they don’t have to, especially between Shatterdomes like this, is nothing short of madness.

 _:This is Nome Shatterdome,:_ they can hear LOCCENT transmit. _:A kaiju alert has been issued for this area. Jaeger Guardian Aegis will escort you to within a mile of the coastline, and then to safe harbor. Please—:_

The loud rumble and crack is the only warning they get before, _:Fuck!:_

Guardian Aegis turns in time to see sparks fly, red-hot and bouncing off Hex’s shoulder. _Jesus_ , the kaiju is huge and it’s _fast_ , tail whipping around so quickly that Hex barely has time to grab it.

“Hex needs backup, we’re en route—” Steve starts.

_:Negative. They’re still in the Miracle Mile, and LA Shatterdome is sending backup. Hold position, Aegis.:_

It chafes, but there’s a ship of people counting on them and their progress is slow, fighting against the wind and current and if the kaiju gets past Hex they really _will_ be sitting ducks out here. They don’t need glory to do their jobs, but the danger is out _there_ ; the fight is out _there_ and the Maximoffs might be prodigies but they’re still _children_ under all that. 

There’s a terrible screech even louder than the thunder cracking through the air, and something darker than rain arcs through the night.

_:Direct hit! Keep it off-balance.:_

“Come on, move faster,” Bucky mutters, his eyes on the ship struggling beside them while Steve splits their attention to track Wanda and Pietro. Something feels off, feels wrong about this and they can’t shake it. They’ll laugh later, probably, and Pietro will tease them for worrying like old men just because of a silly feeling.

_:Oh my God, what is that? What is it?:_

_:Silver Hex, report!:_

_:I think it’s acid; it’s eating at the cryo-cannon!:_ Wanda shrills.

Pietro’s update comes hot on her heels. _:Armor integrity eighty-five perfect and dropping.:_

“Send us in!” Steve demands.

_:Negative, Guardian Aegis, continue escorting—:_

“You’re wasting time, it could be _dead_ by now—”

_:Backup is en route.:_

He looks to his left where Bucky is, and Bucky doesn’t even need to look at him to know what he wants; what he’s going to do, but he looks anyway and nods, grim but grinning because he _knows_.

“You’re a crazy sonofabitch, Rogers,” Bucky declares as they fight the drag of the ocean and walk, left, right, left, right, building momentum while LOCCENT yells at them to hold position.

“You gonna fight me on this one?”

“No way. Someone’s gotta make sure your punk ass comes back alive, and that dubious honor’s mine.”

Steve flashes him a manic grin. “Silver Hex, stand by for assist!”

 _:Steve! Bucky! Watch out for the acid!:_ Hex twists to avoid another spray and digs its dagger into the kaiju’s side, where the flesh is thinner, and the tail comes around again but Hex knows this move now; grabs on with both hands and trusts their team to watch their backs. 

“Aegis deployed.” As one they straighten and lock the command for the rounded shield stored in the right arm, the one that’s the jaeger’s namesake, snapping it up in time to deflect the corrosive liquid and push back against it, slamming once, twice, three times and they feel something yield. Something in its face if they’re lucky.

_:Activating cryo-plates.:_

There’s a terrible shriek as Silver Hex slams into the kaiju and Guardian presses harder, Steve and Bucky heaving and shoving step by tortuous step. The water flows against them, rain reflects their lights back into their faces, noise indescribably loud. Steve can feel the shield starting to buckle around the edges, but it’s no closer to the people on that boat. 

_:We’ve sensed the secondary brain. It’s under the plating on the right—Hex should be able to reach if it you can pry off one of the larger scales,:_ LOCCENT calls in.

Steve and Bucky look to each other, right sides screaming with the effort of keeping Scaleback’s mouth occupied and away from the twins. “No risk—” He can feel the thrill of adrenaline spike through his system and Bucky’s assent as they disengage, scraping the edge of the shield past the kaiju’s teeth, sparks flying, shoving hard to give it that split-open smile straight through its cheek, blue blood and tissue spraying their monitors.

“Aegis won’t retract,” Bucky reports, because he remembers to say things like that out loud even when Steve’s already feeding him the new plan. “Jesus, Steve, really?” But the little flicker of assent is there before he even finishes speaking, like Steve knew it would be. “Hex, give us room in three, two—”

Hex’s hand pulls clear just as Guardian jams the thinnest edge of their shield under a scale, one hand scrabbling for purchase while they frantically scrape the metal against the grain of the scales until it catches.

 _:Guardian Aegis, what the _hell_ are you doing?:_ LOCCENT demands.

“Our jobs!” It’s Bucky or it’s him but it doesn’t matter because both of them roar with satisfaction when a scale peels back and they push again, angled up, until it’s only hanging on by a thread. “Hex, it’s open—Fuck!”

Teeth sink into their right shoulder and they’re too slow to stop it, reaching up with their left to pound its head, aiming for eyes, its ruined cheek, any soft tissue to stop it from clamping down. They can feel something give moments before it lets go with a roar that shakes its way through their jaeger, rattling their teeth inside their heads. It does it again, and again, while Hex stabs at it rapid-fire and Steve and Bucky focus on keeping its head away from their teammates. Something about the way it wails bothers Steve, niggling at the back of his mind. There’s something here, something that nudges at his instincts. It’s almost like a pattern, almost like—

His head explodes in pain.

The shriek that rends the air is tangible, drilling into his ears and through his brain, burrowing in his blood as _something_ blasts out of the ocean, water cascading, glowing, impression of teeth and they reel in shock while the impact rocks them back, back. Catch their balance, brace, ignore the shouts of control, the claxons going off— _danger danger danger, neural handshake compromised_ —mind reaching out for Bucky, his other half, don’t let him be wrenched away because this is life or death. Wanda and Pietro screaming, Silver Hex reeling, crash and boom of metal giving way.

 _Buy time_ , they think. 7.3 seconds to full charge, arm mount whining with effort, mental countdown already underway.

 _Five more seconds_ , but it’s too long to wait, so they grab at the blade snapped off in Scaleback’s body and thrust hard—non-lethal but it does the job, makes it rear back, makes it angry, makes it hurt. 

_Three seconds_.

_:This is Silver Hex—status is critical. Initiating escape pods.:_

_One._

_:Where did it go?:_ mission control mutters over the beep of their sensors.

The hum of the plasma cannon pulses through the Conn-Pod as they wait, sensors disturbingly still. _It should be there_ , Steve thinks, and he can feel Bucky’s murmur of agreement. _It was there a second ago and the water's not deep enough to lose it. It should—_

They turn and aim at the corpse, thoughts a jumble, no time to sort them into words that control will understand, even though they’re demanding sit-rep, giving sensor readouts, no time. Roiling, churning movement like it’s come to life again. Aim to the side, can’t afford to wait if we need another charge, can’t let the first one absorb the blow, _fire_.

The blast of blue light catches the kaiju mid-jump but it’s not enough to stop it, not with the violent velocity as it breaks the surface of the water, narrow muzzle and oversized teeth snapping shut on the cannon and crushing it between brutal jaws. Steve and Bucky yell, suit relaying the damage, like it’s yanking at the joint of their shoulder dear _God_ it’s going to—

Shrill alarms, mechanical voice _Control Pod integrity critical, escape hatch opening_ , someone’s telling them to abort, abort, abort and Steve feels it, the dread that comes from the Bucky-that-is-him as they watch through the monitors. The gruesome tableau illuminated frame by frame in lighting like a strobe light. The supple twist, the spray of water, the metal flying, cables snapping. 

The drivesuit stops them feeling the wind, anything but the pressure of the rain, but not the fear or the pain or the deep acceptance—this is it, I’m sorry, end of the line.

_blond hair, smiling eyes, soft lips, rough hands, gentle touch, blue like the sky like the ocean like life itself  
Steve._

And then nothing.

Nothing, where something should be. Where _he_ should be, Bucky-and-him but it’s _empty_ , gaping like an ugly wound, a mortal wound, fire of pain and electricity and hurt so deep he can’t see outside it. 

Something, somewhere, is burning, he thinks, and maybe that’s important and maybe it isn’t.

Someone, somewhere, is sobbing, he thinks. And maybe it’s him and maybe it isn’t, but either way it isn’t important because there’s still the mission, still the kaiju, still more victims waiting to be claimed unless he does something.

_:Guardian Aegis, disengage.:_

Move, move, move.

 _:Steve, this is Marshal Fury. You’re alone in the Drift._ Disengage. _:_

She moves and Steve could cry because this is what he needs. Finish the mission. Right arm functional, Aegis shield compromised, plasma cannon gone, core compromised and none of it matters. Finish the mission.

The kaiju still has cables hanging from its teeth, gruesome reminders of what it’s done, and Steve doesn’t know if he’s seeing the red of blood or rage when he forces the shield to retract, gears grinding until it can’t anymore and that’s going to have to be enough as he reaches out to stop it. It tries to bite down but he’s got it by the lower jaw, wrenching it into the air while his whole body screams in protest and his focus tunnels, just him and his goal and the thing between them. It twists, pure muscle jerking side to side and he’ll never hold it this way, unbalanced, half a person, half a soul, half a jaeger. Silver gleams, a knife in darkness: short, small, not enough but still _enough_. He lets go, lets it drop, eyes riveted to the metal as he lashes out, kicks hard and feels it connect, drives it deeper into blue flesh. Another stomp and maybe it’s screaming or maybe that’s him, but its mouth is open and that’s the point.

Teeth scrape over metal, the hellish noise grating in his ears and the ghost-impression of teeth biting conducted through his drivesuit telling him that something in his jaeger is about to give. Doesn’t matter—he jams his right hand into its mouth, harder, thrusting until his arm is in its throat and _God_ its jaws are powerful. He can feel armor cave like flesh popping and any moment now his arm will break and he’s laughing through his tears because what’s an arm compared to his heart?

“Deploying Aegis.”

_:Rogers, what the hell are you—:_

It rips through the soft tissue around it, the shield now a weapon with the _clankclankclank_ of it wrenching open, fighting hard against the tight confines of the kaiju’s throat. It thrashes again, jerking the jaeger back and forth, whipping Steve’s head around hard enough to concuss but he’s still awake, yanking back against the force. Again, again, until something gives.

He stomps down, ground spikes clawing for purchase, and wrenches his arm back, throwing all his weight into it. The shield groans and snaps at the joints, falling apart under the force—it’s not meant for this, to be used as a weapon in this way. The body lands heavy back into the ocean, rain washing away the blood so Steve can see the wreckage of the once-proud shield, broken and jagged. Shattered.

Something shines. Something not what’s left of him, something not the downed Silver Hex, unmoving in the water. A light—there.

Escape pod.

It’ll get lost in this weather, he thinks dazedly. Limited oxygen, freezing ocean, high winds. He moves carefully towards it; picks it up between spread fingers, gentle, gentle, gentle. The lid pops open and someone crawls out. Good. Alive, then. But there’s something else he’s missing. 

…Another one? Yes. There should be another one. Can’t let them get lost. His lights flicker and spark. He cuts them off—unnecessary power usage. Useless anyhow. 

Focus, Rogers. Find the other one. Don’t let them be alone.  
  


* * *

  
  
He doesn’t remember finding Pietro.

He doesn’t remember making it to shore, dragging the crippled jaeger with him, walking in stuttering steps for over an hour. He doesn’t remember setting down the twins like precious cargo, or unhooking himself from the cradle and climbing down. Doesn’t remember staggering back towards the ocean until Wanda and Pietro caught him, dragging him back until he collapsed, still calling Bucky’s name.

He wakes up to the beep of machines and the sharp smell of disinfectant, crisp sheets under his hands. Someone is sitting next to him, but he doesn’t even have to see them to know it’s not who he wants to be there. Not the person he aches for, whose absence is an ugly wound in his soul. Still, he turns to look, just in case of a miracle.

Wanda’s luminous brown eyes stare back at him, wide and mournful. Grief-stricken. Confirming with a glance what he already knows in his bones.

“I’ll get a doctor,” she whispers, but her eyes say, _I’m sorry_.

He doesn’t answer because there’s nothing to say. Just nods and closes his eyes and listens to her retreating footsteps. Stares at the ceiling while he waits. Doesn’t even bother to look when he hears someone else enter, because what does it matter? They’ll clear him or they won’t, and eventually he’ll return to his room, alone, useless as half a pilot. Half a man.

“Ranger Rogers.”

Steve looks to the side after all, because that’s not the voice of a doctor. It’s Fury, looking about as grave as he’s ever seen him, pristine in his uniform.

“Doctors are calling you a miracle,” Marshal Fury says conversationally, dragging the visitor’s chair over so he can sit without forcing Steve to crane his neck. “Thought you’d be catatonic after that stunt you pulled in your jaeger. Which was unsalvageable, by the way. Her core was so damaged that no one knows how you even got her back to shore.”

“Bucky?” He has to ask, just in case someone can undo it. Make it not true somehow. Fury offers him an ice chip when he hears the roughness of Steve’s voice, and Steve takes it because there’s not much else to be done. The marshal sits back, taking his time putting away the cup and settling in the chair. 

“I think you already know the answer to that, ranger.”

He does. “Then go away.”

But Fury didn’t get to be marshal by being easy to deter. He gives Steve another few seconds in case he has anything else to add, then goes on like there had never been an interruption. “They’re going to run some tests on you—there’ve only been two other cases like yours, where a ranger has piloted alone and lived to talk about it. A lot of the eggheads are beside themselves, talking about case studies and interviews. I’ll get you out of as much of it as I can, but we’re going to need you for debrief either way.”

“Go away,” Steve repeats. Talking burns and grates at his throat, but it isn’t as though there’s much he wants to say anyway. “It doesn’t matter. Bucky is dead.”

“And you have my sympathies.” He even sounds like he means it. “Barnes was a good soldier, and a good man. But this is the nature of the job. He knew what he was signing up for. And so did you,” Fury reminds him.

“Then consider this my formal resignation.”

“You’re quitting? Over _this_?”

“Over…” Steve struggles to sit upright, pulling at the sensors taped down to him and ignoring the urgent beeping of machines. “Over the death of my _partner_? Yes, Fury, I am!”

“You took an _oath_ —”

“You don’t understand. Bucky is dead.”

“And there are other rangers—”

“James Buchanan Barnes is _dead_ , Marshal!” Steve feels cold and far away, eyes burning with unshed tears. “I _felt him leave me_. Here. _In here_. I _felt_ it.” He presses a hand over his chest where the hole still gapes, invisible despite the pain. “Don’t tell me to try and put someone else in that place. Don’t tell me there’s ‘another ranger.’ Don’t tell me about my fucking oath.” He’s shaking so badly he can feel his teeth chattering with it, but he forces himself to stand, toe to toe with the marshal.

“I swore I’d serve until death? Well, part of me _did_ die out there, and if you can find it and bring it back to life then you’ll have your little miracle soldier back. But until that happens, I’m _out_ , Marshal. I quit.” 

They glare at each other, Fury scowling so hard a vein has started to throb in his temple, Steve still shaking and sweating with the effort it takes to stay upright.

“You’re grieving, soldier,” Fury says finally, his posture shifting, affecting nonchalance. “And that’s understandable. We’ll talk about this again later, when you’re in your right mind.” He sweeps out of the room as doctors and nurses hustle past him, drawn by the shrill noises coming from the monitors.

Steve lets them bundle him back into bed, still glaring at the empty doorframe. He’s in his right mind, and he’s not changing it. He meant what he told Fury: whatever made him a ranger died in that fight. It’s gone along with Bucky, and it’s not coming back.

And, if he has any say in it, neither is Steve.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear, LOCCENT stands for **Loc** al **C** ommand **Cent** er. It’s essentially the mission control for a single Shatterdome.
> 
> "Aegis" is a reference to a shield used by Zeus and Athena in ancient Greek mythology. It's thought to be made of animal skin and/or bear the head of a gorgon. These days, it's a synonym for "shield" or "protection."
> 
> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!
> 
>  **11/15/19:** Edited for formatting and minor grammar/spelling.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve reaches for the rag in his back pocket and swipes it over his face, looking around in resignation. They’ve been at this since 0500 and it feels like they’ve gotten nowhere. Empirically, he knows that’s not true—there’s a pile of sorted metal and wood that tells him so. But with all the rubble still covering the ground and the construction materials waiting under tarps, it certainly feels like the work is never-ending. It doesn’t help that the ground is muddy and shifting beneath his feet, and despite the overcast sky the air is hot and humid.

California isn’t the place it used to be, at least along the coastline. If the old Coastal Wall hadn’t torn up the landscape, the steady increase of kaiju would have done the job eventually. Attacks are steady these days, and jaegers are too difficult and expensive to make on the kind of scale the Corps needs to keep up. Landfall is pretty much inevitable.

Working relief and salvage isn’t glorious, but it’s good, honest work. He takes a swig of water and adjusts his gloves, reaching for his shovel once again. It’s the kind of work he appreciates now, because it tires him out enough that he can sleep through the night, only rarely waking up to echoes of screams and the phantom feeling of a hand clasping his own. During the day, it takes up just enough focus to keep his mind off much else, busy keeping a sharp eye out for increasingly-valuable scraps of metal or things that might have sentimental value to the people whose homes have been lost. Today, he finds a crushed photo album and a ragged stuffed animal, miraculously whole except the dirt and water damage. He tucks both into a rucksack he keeps for just this reason, hoping the owners are still alive and waiting for their return.

He aches by the time he’s done, which is just the way he likes it. Stop to drop things off at lost-and-found, a detour to pick up a change of clothes and soap, and then he’s off to see if there’s enough water today for him to cash in a shower ration. All the showers are in outdoor stalls, the barest semblance of modesty with stretched tarp for dividers and no doors to speak of. It’s just as well—no one out here can afford lights for something so frivolous as bathing, so it would be impossible to see anything if the stalls were too covered. The soap is harsh but it does its job, scrubbing sweat and grime off his skin. The sun is nice and warm in contrast to the lingering cold of the water, and he unabashedly turns his face up toward the light, tipping his head back to work at his hair. It’s getting long, he muses. Between that and his beard, Bucky would laugh at him, call him a mountain man and—

He grabs the rope that will trigger the gravity shower and briskly rinses himself off, telling himself firmly to stay in the present. Done, he towels himself off almost violently, like if he does it hard enough, he can shake free of the clinging memories.

He tells himself to breathe as he pulls on clean clothes, bundling the old ones into his arms for the walk back to the dorms. It’s not like he’s a stranger to intrusive thoughts. Maybe he’ll go see if they can use an extra hand in the mess cleaning dishes, or someone to help fold laundry.

“Rogers!”

Steve pauses mid-step at the sound of his name, squinting against the setting sun at the figure making its way towards him. He recognizes her from the cleanup crew, though she usually works the afternoon shift—should still be working it now, as a matter of fact. A quick glance at her clothes confirms this. Most people don’t just wander off from their jobs, begging the question of why she’s here. 

Annie, that’s her name. She works in the mess on her days off, and she’s known for her bawdy jokes and broad smile. She’s not smiling now. A small tendril of worry creeps up his spine.

“Is everything all right?”

“I’m not here to judge, but do you know why some suits might be looking for you?”

“Suits?”

“PPDC.” 

Whatever expression he makes at that causes her reach out and brace his shoulder. “Don’t worry, they’re still at the site. I don’t know what they want you for, but I snuck out to tell you in case it was trouble.”

She’s worried he might be running from them, he realizes. And she’s not entirely wrong, although she’s not right in the way she thinks she is. Still, it’s incredibly sweet of her to come find him like this, considering that it’s a punishable offense for her to warn him if he’d been wanted by the Defense Corps.

“Thanks, Annie.” He gives her a tight smile. “But you can spread it around that I’ll be at the dorms until dinner.”

“Sure thing.” She gives him a look that clearly says, _‘your funeral,’_ before going back the way she came. 

So much for trying to take his mind off things. He hasn’t heard from the Defense Corps in years now. When he’d first left, they’d tried to make a lot of overtures, making noise about pay increases, promotions, that kind of thing. But except for the paperwork and appointments needed to finish his formal resignation, he’d ignored any and all attempts to coax him to stay. Then, just after he’d passed the waiting and recovery period for his injuries, he left on his first relief mission with only a backpack and a civilian ID and never looked back.

He can only think that maybe he left a few papers unsigned or a new researcher has gotten overzealous and wants to convince him to ‘participate’ in a new study. He’s still thinking of how best to send whoever it is away—or at least intimidate them into making the visit a short one—when there’s a sharp knock on the dormitory door. Steve doesn’t bother to look up from where he's putting away his dirty clothes: no one but an outsider would bother to knock like that, and there’s only one group of outsiders currently in this camp.

“Ranger Rogers. You’re a hard man to find.”

_That_ gives him pause. He expected a paralegal, maybe. Researcher, or perhaps some other grunt whose unfortunate task it would be to come out to what practically amounts to no-man’s land to try and convince a jaded ex-Ranger to donate blood or speak at a conference or whatever other shit he remembers them asking for that first year. But what he’s getting is, apparently—

“Marshal Fury.” He crosses his arms over his chest and draws himself up to his full height. It won’t intimidate Fury—Steve doubts that anything will—but it shows that he won’t be cowed, at least. “I’m not a ranger anymore.”

“But you could be.”

“No,” Steve says immediately. He turns his back on Fury and his assistant and goes back to rummaging pointlessly in his locker. Childish, maybe, but as far as he’s concerned, this conversation is over.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I dragged myself out to the ass-end of nowhere just to talk to you?”

_Because you want to annoy me,_ Steve doesn’t say. “Not particularly.”

“Recruitment’s gotten tight lately,” Fury continues, as though Steve hadn’t spoken. “The rise in kaiju activity increases the incidence of mental fatigue, which means we need to rotate pilots more or risk a compromise in our defenses. Combine that with the resource crisis limiting jaeger production…”

“You’re not telling me anything new, Marshal. It’s been heading that way for a while now.”

“Well then I’ll tell you something you _don’t_ know: there’s signs of a new Breach in the Antarctic.”

Steve looks up so quickly he thinks he might have hurt his neck. He realizes belatedly that the woman who had come in with Fury has closed the dormitory door and is standing guard by it, keeping them safe from prying ears.

“Not a lot of activity. _Yet._ I’ve gotten a Shatterdome up and running, mostly as a forward base of operations and research. Kaiju are popping up close by, but you remember how it was in Nome.”

As though he could ever forget. He knows now that they’d deliberately understaffed it, confident that the location wouldn’t provide enough temptation for a kaiju to attempt landfall. Confident that with the only known Breach thousands of miles away, Los Angeles Shatterdome would have plenty of time to offer an assist to the rookies stationed there. Even when activity started, because the kaiju headed south for other cities, the Defense Council had hesitated to authorize a third jaeger. And then it was too late. 

But it’s still not enough to get him into the cockpit of a jaeger. Not again. “I can’t get into a Conn-Pod, Marshal, and even if I could, no one would want me—you _know_ what I’ve seen. Ask me for something else.”

“Free up someone else to pilot,” Fury says promptly. “Your scores in strategy and assault tactics were in the top five percent in the Academy—take over as Assault Specialist and I can move our current one into the field again.”

Steve frowns. That answer is too quick; too easy. “That’s not exactly a difficult position to fill. There must be officers chomping at the bit for it.”

“And not a single one of them worked close to a forming Breach. We’re not an academy; instructing isn’t going to take up most of your time. I want you in LOCCENT looking for patterns, checking if anything you see rings a bell. People like you and I—we’re soldiers at heart, Rogers. And soldiers see things data alone can’t show. I want that experience working for me at the new Shatterdome. I had to fight the Council every step of the way to get this new ‘Dome up. Budget is limited, manpower is limited, and they’re keeping some of my best analysts and researchers in… let’s just call them ‘more glamorous’ positions.”

“They’re not confident in you,” Steve surmises.

“In my theory,” he corrects. “And I want people there who know how to look at the bigger picture. Honest people.”

“People who have your back?”

“Never hurts. But I don’t need your loyalty to me personally, just your loyalty to the cause. To the people we both swore an oath to protect. Your history tells me you’ve got that in spades. Am I wrong?”

They both know he’s not. Fury’s canny; he wouldn’t personally head out to a disaster zone if he thought he was going to hear a ‘no.’ And he knows the marshal is right: if there _is_ a new Breach forming, he’s going to need eyes on it. Ones that aren’t blinded by hope or optimism or constrained by politics. If there _is_ a new Breach forming, catching it early could be the thing that saves hundreds, even thousands of lives. And Steve can’t turn his back on that outright. Not then and not now.

He thinks about putting up a token protest. He has a commitment here, after all, and he’s technically contracted for another two months. But he knows that the PPDC’s summons will take priority no matter what, and he finds that he’d like to keep at least a little of his pride intact. He reaches inside his locker and grabs the battered canvas rucksack, tossing it onto his bed.

“When do we leave?”  
  


* * *

  
  
Steve wakes up from a nightmare about blood and rending metal, bright blue in his floodlights. He checks his clock—0300. The smart thing would be to go back to sleep, but he can tell by the shakiness in his hands and the way his heart races that that’s not going to be an option for him tonight. Rolling out of bed, he grabs a change of clothes and some water and heads out. Most nights like this, he ends up either in the combat room or the war room, and tonight he doesn’t think he can sit still.

He knew when he accepted that he would have some problems settling into a Shatterdome again, and the sudden increase in nightmares are just one of them. It makes sense: all ‘Domes share that certain military sameness, but Vahsel Shatterdome is located on the island of South Georgia, just a stone’s throw away from the Antarctic, which makes it painfully similar to his Nome posting. Although if anything, this post is even worse: the only other semblance of civilization here is a village of under ten thousand people that sprang up around the Shatterdome. It’s populated mostly by people hoping to get civilian work or cater to the recreational needs of the Shatterdome personnel. The next nearest town is in South America, an hour or so by cargo plane if you have the permission and leave time. Nome had been similar, although the proximity of Anchorage had made it much easier to see a real city.

He forces his thoughts away from the past—he has enough to deal with in the present. And, speak of the devil, he sees one of his cadets sneaking into the room ahead of him. There’s technically no rule about curfew at the stage his cadets are at, but given that Steve has the power to rouse them from bed at any time for a simulated ‘attack,’ and given that it’s still possible to fail out of the program due to consistently poor response time or simulation scores, most responsible cadets get their sleep while they can.

His late-night companion turns out to be Cadet William “Billy” Kaplan, who at least has the grace to look somewhat sheepish when he notices who enters. But calling him out would make Steve a hypocrite, so he just nods to him and starts on his own warm-ups.

Billy is a good kid—they’re all good kids, really, and that’s part of the problem. Assuming none of them mess up badly enough to fail out, they’ll graduate in a few more months, and Steve is having nightmares about it already. He’s never been on this side of the equation, and the more he teaches them the more he realizes they don’t know. Technically they’re all adults, all over twenty-one, and each will have had at least four months’ experience in simulated kaiju attack situations by the time they’re assigned a co-pilot and jaeger of their own. But Steve still looks at them, hopeful and unjaded and infallible the way young people are, and he can’t help but wonder how long that hopefulness will last. Fury is even hoping that for two of them, their first posting will be _here_ , in the middle of nowhere, with no ready backup from nearby Shatterdomes. If the signs of a Breach start to stabilize, Vahsel will be the first line of defense to South America, and these cadets will be part of it.

For now, the Shatterdome only has a single jaeger assigned to it. Not even assigned, actually—Tracer Spider and her pilots, Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton, are technically on loan from Ushuaia Shatterdome in Argentina. They’re skilled and well-seasoned, but in Steve’s opinion it’s still sheer luck that they haven’t needed any backup. There’s a jaeger built and in final stages of production sitting in the secondary hangar, but they’re waiting until the cadets graduate to finish it in order to keep both it and their new rangers at Vahsel. Until then, Tracer Spider works alone.

“You all right, sir?”

Steve blinks and turns to Billy, who looks like maybe he’s been steeling himself to say something for a while. Looking down, Steve realizes that he’s just been holding his second hand wrap for some time now while he stares at his empty palm.

“Just thinking,” he says absently. He’ll have to start over on this hand.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Billy jokes, and immediately pales. “Sir,” he adds, like it’ll somehow cover his mistake. “I mean—”

Steve can’t help himself—he laughs. It shouldn’t be funny, disrespecting an officer like that, but Billy’s face is so pinched with nervousness and it’s so exactly the kind of thing that Bucky would have said to him when they were cadets themselves. “I’ll let it go this time. Just don’t let it happen again.”

The cadet’s relief is almost palpable. “Yes, sir.”

“So. I know why _I’m_ here. Why are you?”

“I want to make a difference,” Billy says immediately, eyes shining. “I know there’s lots of ways to do it, and honestly for a while I thought I’d go into K-Science instead, but… well, I figured that it was worth trying to get into the Academy. Even if I washed out, I could still go into K-Science, you know? Maybe be an officer. But my grandparents were from San Diego and they remembered what it was like before the jaegers were built—they lost everything on K-Day. And then the Aleutian Breach opened up… It just feels like the right thing to do.”

Something tightens in Steve’s chest. Billy is _so much_ like him at that age. He even has a boyfriend, Steve knows, in officer training for… something. Waiting for Billy to graduate, cheering him on in his dream to become a ranger. Someone who will wait at home for him whenever he goes out on a mission, trusting in the jaeger and his partner to keep the guy he loves safe. The others, too—Bishop and Lang. He doesn’t know if either of them has a boyfriend or girlfriend, but surely there are people they love, who love them back and are waiting for them. Are they relieved because they think the middle of nowhere will be an easy post, or do they realize the kind of danger a ranger faces without other Shatterdomes nearby to assist?

He doesn’t let any of it show on his face. Instead, he just says blandly, “I meant what you were doing in the Combat Room at 0300,” and watches as Billy’s face heats up. Whoever he ends up in the Drift with better be ready for a lot of easy emotions, Steve thinks.

“Oh. I woke up too early and I know my footwork could stand some improvement,” he says sheepishly. Which is true—Cadet Kaplan is the weakest of the three at hand-to-hand, although he’s excellent at making the mental switch between any of a jaeger’s weapons and identifying weak points on a kaiju. It isn’t surprising to learn that he wanted to be in K-Science once.

“You hesitate too much,” Steve tells him, already unwrapping his hands. “It leaves you open.”

“I know, sir. I just don’t know how to fix it.”

“How else?” Steve asks rhetorically, already leading him to the padded ring. “Practice.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Sparring with Billy brings them nearly to 0400 between warm-up and cool-down, at which point Steve encourages the younger man to try to sleep again, or at least rest up for the next hour and a half. He stays to clean up after the two of them, but even after that and washing up a bit, Steve still can’t settle. If anything, his conversation with Billy made things worse. Steve should never have agreed to come out here. If he’d refused, maybe Fury would have found someone more qualified to teach these kids. Someone with more experience. And thus far, Steve hasn’t managed to contribute anything groundbreaking to the team trying to predict Breach formation patterns, so even his job as consultant feels useless. Or, not useless precisely, but like he’s not doing enough. Which is ridiculous, he reminds himself as he pulls on a coat. Fresh air will do him good. Going outside might give him better perspective on things. He hopes.

He does have a few choices, still. The cadets will only be in training for a few more months. He technically has the power to keep them longer, or to get them kicked from the program altogether. He wouldn’t do that for no reason, though—they’ve worked hard and they want their chance to serve, same as Steve did, and so long as they take it seriously and can pass the simulations, he won’t take that away. He’ll focus more fully on the cadets; pile on the hours and try to get them what experience he can in even more situations. But there’s a point at which they’ll stop listening or, at the very least, stop being able to retain the information. And there’s a limit to the number of things he can realistically prepare them for.

He could demand someone else act as Assault Specialist and take over consulting full-time. If nothing else, his resignation from that role might get the cadets transferred elsewhere. Except that if he does that, then the chances of Tracer Spider getting backup anytime soon will drop. And even if there’s nothing definitive enough to bring to the Council yet, Steve, like Fury, has a gut feeling that something is going on with the activity here. He can’t even pin it down, frustratingly enough. It’s just a creeping sense of similarity between the situation here and the one at Nome—one that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the oppressive sense of anticipation.

“Officer Rogers.”

Steve turns to see Sharon Carter, Fury’s aide de camp and Steve’s first tentative friend here, approach. Like him, she’s dressed in a thick coat and gloves, although she’s also carrying her ubiquitous tablet. Sharon always seems busy with one thing or another, but she still found time to show him around his first few days.

“Officer Carter,” he replies, making her grin at him ruefully.

“All right: _Steve_. You’re awake awfully early. Cadets keeping you up?”

“You should say that.”

“Trouble I can help with?”

Steve eyes her thoughtfully. She’s got a good head on her shoulders—obviously, or she wouldn’t have climbed the ladder like she has. But she also seems loyal, not just to the PPDC or Fury, but to her friends. Her morals. He thinks he can trust her to tell him the truth, or at least the truth as she knows it, which is really all anyone can ask.

“It’s not the cadets themselves. It’s what they’re getting into.”

“Ah. Nervous about the fledglings graduating?”

“Marshal Fury wants to keep them here, but these are the front lines and they’re so green they’re still bleeding sap.”

“All Shatterdomes are front lines,” she tells him gently. She slips her tablet into her coat, giving him her full attention as she settles in beside him. “It’s what they sign up for. It’s what we train them for.”

“You know what I mean. Vahsel is an hour from the next closest Shatterdome and we’ve only got one jaeger. It’s a miracle you’ve managed this long—pure luck that the Breach activity hasn’t picked up, no matter what else is being said. And as soon as these cadets are ready, Ushuaia will recall Tracer Spider, won’t they? Leaving a set of rookies as the only defense for an entire ‘Dome.”

Sharon doesn’t deny any of it, which is telling in and of itself. “Marshal Fury is still working on improving the situation. I’m not at liberty to discuss details yet, but it’s not like we want them unescorted any more than you do. A veteran team would be ideal, but there’s a waiting list for that, too, and without proof that more rangers are actually needed, we’re at the bottom of that list.”

“No Shatterdome has ever made do with a single jaeger, not since before the Wall!”

Sharon gives him a sharp look, scalding even in the cool lights of the base. He presses his lips together—he won’t apologize for his frustration, but they both know that whatever he’s feeling, she must have felt at least a dozen times over. She’s been here longer, after all, since the Shatterdome’s completion. He takes a few moments to grind his teeth and breathe. She’s good enough to let him, giving him a chance to calm down.

“I just don’t like that I’ve been dragged into a situation that I don’t feel like I can do anything about.”

He expects Sharon to make sympathetic noises, or maybe say something funny or sarcastic, but instead, she falls silent. Something about it isn’t easy, though, looming instead of companionable. Steve gives it as long as he can stand but figures out pretty quickly that whatever it is she doesn’t quite want to say, he’s going to have to ask after.

“You’re thinking something that I might not want to hear,” he guesses. “Either that, or there’s something you know that I don’t.”

She bites her lip lightly, then sighs. “I just don’t want you to think Marshal Fury put me up to this.”

His first instinct is to get his hackles up—Fury is the type to play someone like him, he thinks. But from what he can tell, Sharon isn’t the type to play to something like that without good reason, and _definitely_ not the type for the convoluted subtlety of a double misdirection. At least, he doesn’t think so, and he likes to believe that he’s pretty good at reading people.

“I’m a big boy. I can always walk away if I don’t like what I hear.”

“I don’t know how much you’ve kept up with Shatterdome movements the last few years…” She pauses to look at him, but he has no clue where she’s going. “We’ve run a few trials, and there are a few pairs out in the field—veteran/rookie co-pilots.”

Now he knows where this is going, but he lets her continue.

“It’s rare, because no one wants to mess with a strong neural handshake, and because there’s a reason veteran pairs make it so far. But once in a while, one of the two burns out faster, or there was one instance where one suffered a personality shift following an injury. In simulations and thus far in the field, the statistics are good. Compared to rookie teams, a mixed set of pilots has less incidence of injury in the field to both pilots and jaeger, and the veterans show slower signs of burnout and fatigue.” She meets his gaze, unflinching. “You said you didn’t want to be in the field again, and to be frank, no one can make you. I don’t know if Marshal Fury planned on bringing this up with you—”

Steve would bet money that he did.

“—but it’s an option. I read an abridged version of your file—given what you’ve been through, I don’t blame you for disappearing. I don’t know that I would have even come back, if I were you. And I want to be perfectly clear about something, Steve: No one, not even the marshal, can force you to pilot again. PPDC has rules that will help protect you.” She places a hand on his arm, expression sober. “If it comes down to it, _I_ will personally intervene, even against Fury.” He manages a thin smile, and it even feels almost-real. “It’s your choice. I’ll be the first to tell you that an officer’s job is an important one, but I agree that sometimes it feels like we’re sitting and spinning our wheels, so to speak. But… well, now you know all your options.”

They stand in silence for a while longer, this time much less charged, until Sharon’s watch gives off a shrill beep. She taps it and sighs. “First meeting of the day. Bureaucracy at its best.”

He puts out a hand to stop her before she can leave. “Hey, Sharon?” He waits for her to look at him, her head cocked to the side in question. “Thanks. For telling me,” he finishes awkwardly.

She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me—I don’t think I’ve done you any favors by telling you that.”

“You listened,” he points out stubbornly. “And you basically offered to fight your boss for me. That counts for a lot.”

“Well, then, you’re welcome. That’s what friends are for, right?” Her watch beeps again, and she smacks it with an exasperated look. “Good luck with the cadets today.” A wave and a smile, and she’s gone.  
  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands are a group of islands considered part of the British Overseas Territories way down in the Antarctic region of the world. The South Sandwich Trench is the 9th deepest oceanic trench in the world, coming in at 8,202 meters in the Meteor Deep.
> 
> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Chapter 4

“And what are these? Why do they cut off at the bottom?” Steve carefully traces a line with his finger and waits while Doctor Banner, head of K-Science at Vahsel, peers over his shoulder.

“Ah, the low-frequency electromagnetic waves? Most of it is used for atmospheric analysis during kaiju emergence, so it’s on a different graph. Hold on, I know it’s around here…”

Banner is a nice enough guy, relatively mellow and a nice counterpoint to many of his more manic co-workers. Steve has been advised not to get into discussions of atomic radiation and ion decay with him, as it apparently makes him ‘go apeshit,’ as someone put it. He doesn’t even know what that _means_. He barely knows what the graph he’s holding right _now_ means, so he doubts he’s in any danger of provoking the scientist one way or the other. Banner makes a satisfied noise when he unearths the graph he’s looking for, setting the sheaf of paper in front of him. Steve kind of regrets asking, because this chart is more complex than the other one and includes differently-weighted and -colored lines across the pages and, honestly, he knows absolutely nothing about how to read this as an atmosphere. He’d asked out of curiosity, but now it seems rude not to at least look at it since Bruce made the effort of locating it.

He’s still squinting at page three and hoping it looks like he’s gleaning information from this when the kaiju alarm goes off. He bolts out of his chair, legs scraping loudly against the floor and papers sliding off the desk, and he’s still planning the most efficient way to find the Drivesuit Room before he realizes that’s not where he belongs. Not anymore. There’s no reason for him to hurry because he’s not a ranger; he doesn’t have a fifteen-minute window to get suited and into the air. Instead, he only has to go to the local command center and… stand by. Even as a consultant, there’s not much for him to do until the drones can get footage of the kaiju itself.

He realizes that people are staring. Not everyone—some of them have enough manners or are absorbed enough in their own work that they’re no longer looking at him. But there are enough eyes on him that he can feel the blood rush to his cheeks as he goes back to put the desk to rights and double-check for his badge.

Time both crawls and flies by. It feels like forever before Fury notices him and lets him come forward; even longer before the first video drone can arrive and start streaming footage. And then all at once, Tracer Spider is there and the footage from its camera plays out on the central screen and—

“Something about this is wrong,” Steve mutters, leaning closer to the screen like it will get him physically closer to the fight. The video is grainy and jerky, lagging and cutting in and out because of the weak reception, but it’s enough to go on. Steve can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something about the way the kaiju moves that he doesn’t like. Or maybe—

“Do we have a hologram up yet?” He turns to look for it even while the sound of another yell crackles through the comms, echoes of the kaiju screaming reverberating behind it.

“Sitwell?” Fury prompts.

“Working on it, sir,” a tech replies tersely. The hologram flickers to life, form rough but filling in as more data is translated. Steve stares at it, then back at the video feed.

“Tail’s too stiff. Something about the tail. Tell them to pull back; bait it in.”

“ _In_?” the tech—Sitwell?—is the one who speaks up, but the question is reflected in Fury’s eye and those of others within easy hearing range. Hill tilts her head up towards Fury for confirmation even while she pays careful attention to the readouts updating on her screen.

One of the biologists, Jensen according to her badge, darts forward. “The tail is likely used as a propeller underwater,” she argues, thankfully in a low voice, “Giving it more mobility even closer to shore will let it gain traction with the prehensile claws.” 

Fury brought Steve on for a soldier’s insight and he intends to provide it. “You want my tactical advice or not?” he demands. It’s sharp enough that Sitwell and several others look away. Fury considers Steve, then the biologist, before blinking slowly and turning back to the screen. 

“Tell them to pull back, Officer Hill.”

“Tracer Spider, bait kaiju Violator closer to shore and observe tail movements.”

 _:Sure, no problem.:_ That sounds like Barton’s dry humor over the groan of overtaxed metal joints as Tracer Spider barely dodges Violator’s snapping jaws, lightning-quick for something so ridiculously large. _:Get right on it.:_

They’re trying to back up, Steve can tell, feinting and slowly shuffling backwards, taunting it. Violator snaps at them, trying to close the distance.

“Draw out the tail,” Steve orders, and Hill repeats it into the mic without even looking at Fury this time.

_:LOCCENT, this isn’t working. We’re losing ground too fast.:_

_:We’re changing tactics:_ Romanov declares. _:We need to force its hand or it’ll follow us all the way to the ‘Dome.:_

Officer Hill leans in to the mic. “Tracer Spider, do _not_ —” 

But they’ve closed the distance in a sudden burst, fast enough to land a glancing blow on Violator’s face, and another one in the other direction, bright blue blood dribbling down its sides. They wind up for another shot and that’s when they see it, just in range of Tracer Spider’s tertiary camera, the stiff tail suddenly splitting, what seemed like ridges elongating and spreading thin, revealing itself as tissue connecting each segment as it pushes fine bone plates through its own flesh like a mad parody of razor wire.

 _:What the hell is that?!:_ The rangers are too seasoned to leave themselves open despite the distraction, still engaged hand to hand with the front half of the kaiju, grappling for leverage.

Whip-fast, the tail swings and snaps through the air, crashing into Tracer Spider with little finesse. At its size, the bones don’t even have to be sharp, depending on pure force to wedge into Tracer Spider’s metal exterior and drag it in, hooked protrusions catching on every dent and crack and joint. Steve bares his teeth and flexes his fingers, fighting the muscle memory that has him reaching for the manual overrides. Most jaegers can survive a while underwater so long as their seals are intact, and for once it might be best to simply ragdoll, throw off Violator’s balance and try for a blow at its stomach from underneath, or maybe roll into it and—

Too late to tell, because this isn’t one of his cadets’ lessons and it’s happening in real time, and whatever Steve’s decision would have been doesn’t matter because Barton and Romanov are the ones reacting. Tracer Spider lets itself be dragged while it ejects its primary weapon, a harpoon attached to a long, carbon-fiber lead. It’s designed to anchor a kaiju to the jaeger; make it less of a moving target until it can be neutralized, but they grab it in both hands, yanking it from the shoulder mount. Steve can see the moment the rangers swing their weight into the lash of Violator’s tail, jaeger like a pendulum at the end of a string to crash back into the kaiju’s body, knocking it off-balance in a spray of water. They flip the harpoon in their hands, whipping the lead line into a wide arc before driving the point hard into Violator’s body. The shaft sinks in almost a third of the way but Violator is still thrashing, still alive, and Steve can hear Romanov cursing in Russian as they pull the harpoon free again.

“Higher up, try higher up,” Steve mutters under his breath, flexing his hands, knowing that even if he says something it will come too late, useless because of the distance and the precious milliseconds between advice and reaction. This is it: the difference between being in the Conn-Pod and being in mission control and how can Fury just _stand here_ and watch his men go out in the field day after day? One fight and Steve's hands shake and his heart squeezes tight while he watches a screen lagging precious seconds behind and knows that anything he says might come too late.

The head of the harpoon isn’t meant to be removed cleanly but it _does_ heat, smoke pluming up as it works to cauterize the wound and staunch the blood waterfalling down the kaiju’s side. It shrieks again and Tracer Spider leans heavily on the shaft, angling it up toward Violator’s spine. The tail comes down again and they dodge, bone screeching against metal, the jaeger reaching up to drag at the bone plating, looping the line over it until it catches. The next time Violator tries to lash its tail, Spider pulls straight back, light body straining and scrabbling at the ocean floor to keep grounded, but it pulls the line tight and wrenches the shaft in a quarter-circle, ripping through flesh and sinew until it hits solid bone again, and then the hooked head drags up, up, up, gouging flesh with it as it goes.

“Tracer Spider, there’s too much force; you need to eject the winch _now_ ,” Maria barks into the comms.

 _:We still have thirty-three percent integrity,:_ Romanov grits out, the tension of the line almost audible even over the speakers.

“Before it rips it out of you!”

 _:Just a little more,:_ Barton urges.

Steve can see the moment the barb penetrates the secondary brain: the entire back half of Violator jerks and flails, the tail flipping uselessly before falling back into the water. They eject the spool of line with a yell, turning away to protect the cockpit from the backlash. The spool whips around and hits them with enough force to ring through the comms, static overtaking the line just as Violator closes its jaws around one of the jaeger’s arms.

“Tell them to activate the Widow’s Bite,” Steve demands.

“The damage to the chest plate—”

 _:LOCCENT, activating Widow’s Bite,:_ Romanov’s voice crackles, and for some absurd reason Steve feels a sense of triumph. Officer Hill’s finger twitches toward the comms. Fury shakes his head minutely and she stops, though her lips curve into a disapproving frown.

Electricity flares on the monitor, saltwater and blood conducting it into Violator’s open maw. It flinches, jaw trying to crunch shut, making the hologram of Tracer Spider light up red. The rangers don’t say anything, but the cameras track the rapid deployment of Tracer Spider’s stinger blades, holstered inside her wrists, wrenching her damaged arm just enough to get a clean shot at the kaiju’s eye.

The blade glances off one thick eye ridge but the second strike is true, sinking through the vulnerable tissue to the nerves beneath. The display of Tracer Spider still flashes red on her arm and yellow on her upper chest. The more detailed damage report will be done when she returns to her bay, but for right now it’s enough that she’s still standing and in once piece.

Tracer Spider shakes her hand free, then extends the blade a little further and drives it hard behind the kaiju’s skill.

 _:There,:_ Barton pants. _:Kill confirmed. Waiting on transport back to the Shatterdome.:_

Officers in charge of retrieval and sanitization jump into action while others breathe a sigh of relief. Steve is in neither of those groups—instead, he sits back into a chair and considers. Considers what he can do, what he won’t do, and what he _needs_ to do.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Look up, Rogers. We won.” 

Steve does his best not to scowl at the marshal, but he’s pretty sure he fails. “They shouldn’t be out there without backup.”

“Preaching to the choir.”

Steve goes back to running through the footage of the recent fight, having commandeered a console to do so. Fury’s right—they won. Romanov and Barton have returned safely, and engineers are already at work repairing the damage to Tracer Spider. They’ve succeeded at keeping another kaiju from making landfall, and they’ve gathered more Breach data for Fury’s little campaign. All their goals have been met. So why does he feel like he’s failed?

“I didn’t do anything.” He grips the edge of the desk tightly, anger roiling.

“You did plenty,” Fury counters mildly. “Noticed the tail anomaly before anyone else did, including our biologist. Telling them to pull back was the kind of call I hired you to make.”

“A safe one?”

“A good one.”

 _One that came too late either way,_ he thinks bitterly. If it had been _him_ out there, piloting the jaeger, making the calls… “You can’t keep sending them out without backup. Tracer Spider is light artillery at best; she’s not designed for large solo encounters. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“I agree. Which is why there’s a jaeger being finished as we speak. It’ll be ready to move to the main hanger by next week, waiting for a set of pilots. Speaking of which, how are they coming along?”

“They’re _kids_.”

“They’re rangers. Or they will be soon,” Fury disagrees.

“You think a pair of rookies would have taken the command to retreat?” Even if the warning had been on time, which it hadn’t.

“I’d hope they’d be trained well enough to.” The marshal is unflappable, and that just makes Steve angrier.

“Put me out there.”

Fury actually has the audacity to arch an eyebrow at him in surprise, as though he probably hadn’t planned for this exact thing. It kills Steve to fall into it, but it kills him more to stand here while others lay down their lives. “You said you wanted my experience, so put me back into the field.”

“You’ll have to Drift with someone again.”

“I know how piloting works. Marshal,” he tacks on with a little bit of a bite. Far from looking affronted, Fury seems almost pleased at his impertinence. “Do you want me in a jaeger or not?”

“Well, when you put it like that.” Fury holds out his hand. Steve gives him a hard look and then takes it, eyes steady and grip firm.

“Welcome back to the Jaeger Program, Ranger.”  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s still three weeks shy of when the cadets would normally look for Drift compatible partners, and none of them thought they might be paired with a veteran. Given the circumstances, their participation is strictly voluntary, but no one seems surprised when all of them agree almost immediately.

Cadet Cassandra “Cassie” Lang isn’t necessarily who Steve would have guessed to have the highest Drift compatibility with him, but less than a half hour of watching Steve spar his students and Fury had simply called, “Lang,” and left. Less than twenty-four hours later and they’re here, Cassie impeccably turned out in her drivesuit and either absurdly optimistic about the Drift or else hiding her nerves exceedingly well. She’s not stupid, so Steve guesses the latter.

“Are you ready, cadet?”

“Ready, sir.”

She slips on her helmet and lets the tech finish hooking her into the simulation Conn-Pod. Sharon waits behind the main console, eyes on the readouts there. She glances up and catches Steve’s gaze, giving him a subtle but encouraging nod.

Right. He can do this. Five years since he’s so much as touched a jaeger, but he remembers what the Drift is like. Don’t hang on. Don’t shut anything out. Let the memories flow. He breathes deep and keeps his eyes on the signal light in front of him.

The tech’s voice filters in steadily though their comms. “Prepare for Drift in three… two… one.”

Steve has a moment of familiar disorientation and then  
_a jaeger, huge and old, kind of a junker but so much pride,_ Daddy, are you a superhero?  
_sharp and streamlined like a knife to cut through clouds like butter, just like his toys, pop in his flight suit taking him by the hand_  
_can tell they’re fighting and it’s something about work or not-work but he usually smiles and he’s not smiling right now even when he sees her and calls her peanut like always, and she wants to be picked up but Mommy wants her to go make sure the back door is locked and by the time she comes back Daddy is gone_  
_guns firing into the air it’s scary but you’re supposed to stand tall, Steven, being brave means being there even when you’re scared, standing up when you’re down, it’s going to be okay because you’re my brave boy and I love you. One day—_  
_she’s going to be a ranger just like him, sneaks off to a museum instead of going to school because when they move who knows if she’ll have the chance again; mom will be mad but daddy would understand. looking in the fake Conn-Pod all plastic and rubber but it’s as close to the real thing as she’ll get for now but one day maybe if she makes it she could be her daddy’s partner, look to her right—_  
_and see himself, not him, ghost of him, no, not ghost. he’s on the right,_ This is Nome Shatterdome _don’t look left something’s wrong_

“BPM 135 and rising.”

_No, what_  
_Don’t look_  
_why_

“Pull them out of it.”

“It’s still within normal—”

“Power down!”

_bright eyes brown hair crooked smile,_ it’s gonna be okay, Stevie, _brush of another mind on his and—_

 _terror_  
_pain_  
_searing, tearing, rending; me/him/us gone_  
_empty, vast,_  
_half a brain screaming seeing grey eyes silver metal blue blood_

__

__

Cassie practically falls out of the simulator, yanks off her helmet, and bolts for the nearest wastebasket where everyone can hear her heave and retch. Steve doesn’t blame her—he feels green himself, clammy and alternating between too hot and too cold while his heart tries to squeeze into the smallest shape possible. He’d tried to disengage from the memory, to let it go like he ought. But he’d gotten dragged in anyway, chasing the rabbit like a _rookie_ when there was an actual greenie depending on him, _Jesus Christ_ , Rogers, get hold of yourself.

The tech shuts off the last of the warning lights and goes to see to the cadet. Steve knows that he’ll have to talk to her sooner than later, to make sure she’s all right and for a debrief, but right now he feels like he might suffocate to death.

“I need to leave.”

“Steve, you should—” Sharon puts out a hand to stop him, brows furrowed.

“I’m going outside. Make sure Lang is okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Doesn’t wait to be stripped of his drivesuit. He just puts the helmet on the nearest flat surface and walks away. Finds the first door that’ll lead him to fresh air and pushes it open without a second’s hesitation, wind biting with chill against his face. He turns into it, welcomes the sharp cold into his lungs, and it fights back the nausea and dizziness but does nothing for the twisted feeling under his skin.

He was _there_. Bucky was there somewhere, in the Drift, the memory of him so strong that Steve could almost reach out and touch him. Followed his mind instinctively, even when he knew he shouldn’t. Even when he knew it had to be a Drift echo. It’s been four years since he last felt one, the echo of a mind—a _soul_ —that once reverberated with Steve’s so deeply and regularly that even outside of a jaeger they could feel each other’s minds like the last, lingering notes of a concerto. They were more common when Bucky was still alive, and faded slowly—so slowly—after his death. 

At first, Steve couldn’t be rid of them fast enough. They wouldn’t let him move on, convincing him that Bucky was around the next corner, or still lying in the bed beside him. And then, when they were gone, he missed him with an ache so sharp he could have cried for it, realizing a piece of him had truly been silenced forever. Feeling him again reopens a wound he thought he’d healed, rips him up so suddenly and violently that he has no defenses against it.

He can’t go back to this. Doesn’t have time to grieve again, to bleed on other people. He needs to keep moving. Needs to stop feeling like his skin is moving around without him—dissociating, his therapist called it. He curls his hands into fists and releases the tension slowly, focusing on each finger as it straightens out. When that fails, he slows his pace marginally and focuses on the ground a few feet in front of himself, cataloging each new thing as it enters his vision. Most of it is the poured-concrete ground, but there are already cracks here and there. A streak of black rubber, a stray piece of paper, people’s feet and legs as they walk by. Boots, almost all of them: black, brown, tan; shiny, scuffed, stained with water or oil. Someone needs new laces; someone else walks too hard on their heels and it’s wearing the sole unevenly; another person—

Steve’s heart stops for a moment and he’s suddenly, painfully present, aware of every small thing happening: his right foot poised to take a step, the cry of a bird somewhere in the distance, the predictable rumble of machinery moving in the secondary hangar, and _him_. He doesn’t even know what it is about the movement that catches his eye—something about the silhouette, or the stance, or the cadence of the steps. But it can’t be. 

He means to call out but it comes out as only a breath, scarcely audible even to himself before the wind snatches it away.

“Bucky?"  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a glimpse, there and gone. Flash of high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. Bright, storm-blue eyes and the crooked curl of a smile. Dark hair and something about the easy way he walks. Some things are off. Hair’s too long—long enough to pull back in a ponytail. Blue jumpsuit, not dark Ranger Green. Bucky/not-Bucky is walking past him towards the secondary hangar, used for construction and major repairs. Mechanic, Steve realizes from the soot- and grease-stains, the heavy work gloves he can see sticking out of his pocket.

But it can’t be him. Can’t be, because Bucky is dead. This is just someone that looks similar, someone his mind has clung to because it’s just felt him in the Drift and this man is a reasonable facsimile and some wires are getting crossed.

But then he turns again, shit-eating grin on his face and calling out something to one of the staff passing by and Steve hears his voice drifting through the cold air. Something about beating Vince one-handed, and then a return response about beating something else that makes him laugh and God, _dear God_ , it’s the same, his voice. Even if someone looked like Bucky, there’s no way he could sound exactly the same, is there? And Steve just heard it a moment ago, in the Drift, Bucky’s voice called up from his memories whispering Steve’s name.

So it can’t be him, but that doesn’t stop Steve’s feet from taking one step and then another, heart racing. He needs a better look. If he can just see him properly, touch him for one moment, he’ll know it’s not Bucky and then he can apologize for his complete lack of manners and he’ll _know_.

“Excuse me.” The words barely make it past his lips the first time, so he swallows and tries again. “Excuse me.” He’s still reaching out to tap the brunet on the shoulder when the man turns around, a question in his eyes.

And Steve’s world tilts on its axis, because standing in front of him is James Buchanan Barnes. He’s rougher around the edges, but who isn’t these days? And his hair is long—it’s been years, that would make sense.

“Sure, how can I help you, Ranger?”

His voice is the same: husky, confident but gentle. It’s got an odd lilt to it now but it’s definitely Bucky’s voice, and no one could possibly fake that. Has he been here the whole time? Was the PPDC hiding him? Why would they do that?

“Oh, Jesus, Bucky, I thought you were dead!” He reaches out to hug him but Bucky takes a wary step back, posture stiff like he’s not sure if he needs to fight. “Come on, Bucky, it’s _me_ ,” he says desperately. The pleasant expression drops away when Steve takes another hesitant step closer.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Steve thinks he staggers, except he doesn’t move at all. “You are.”

“You’ve got the wrong person.” Bucky’s expression gentles the way it does when he’s trying not to upset someone who looks like they’re about to cry. Does Steve look like that? “My name is Ilya Volkov.”

The words reach his brain but his heart won’t believe them. Bucky is standing here in front of him. It _has_ to be him.

“No, it’s not. You’re James Buchanan Barnes, and you’re my best friend.”

“Sir, I don’t even know who you are.” He’s annoyed. Steve doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry because even after five years he can still read Bucky’s body language. The way he narrows his eyes, shifts to the left a little, bites the inside of his cheek: he’s annoyed, and Steve’s never seen anything better.

“My name is Steven Grant Rogers and I thought you were dead, Buck. Everyone thought you were dead so I didn’t—oh my God, I should have made them look for you when we didn’t find a body. I didn’t even—”

“Whoa!” Bucky grabs him before he can collapse completely, even though the drivesuit probably would have taken most of the impact. Steve thinks hysterically that he even smells the same under all the smoke and metal and engine grease.

“Look, sir, you need to calm down. You’re breathing too fast.”

“Steve, call me Steve.”

“Okay, Steve.” It’s been so long since he’s heard his name in that voice, but he’d know it anywhere. No matter who this man says he is or isn’t, Steve knows that this is Bucky. “You’re shaking. You need to calm down.” Steve nods even though he still can’t seem to get his own body under control, and he hears Bucky mutter something in Russian under his breath. Even _that’s_ a relief, because Steve remembers the three years of high school that Bucky took it as his foreign language elective and how he always learned the curses and lewd phrases first.

“Why don’t we go inside where it’s warmer, eh?” Bucky nudges him encouragingly. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah—yeah, I can.” He staggers upright even though his legs still feel shaky, and Bucky keeps looking at him with concern. Which is fair because Steve even feels a little wobbly, skin prickling so that he’s not sure if he’s too hot or too cold and honestly there’s part of him that’s starting to wonder if this whole thing is a dream. “You’re real, right?”

“Maybe you should go to the infirmary. You don’t look well.”

“No, I’m fine,” Steve insists, but he lets Bucky guide him back inside.

“I have to go back to work in ten minutes and I can’t just leave you on the ground outside.” Now they’re navigating the hallways, stopping once in a while for Bucky to read the signs to make sure they’re going the right way. “Keep talking. No falling asleep.”

Oh, he thinks Steve has a concussion. Not a bad conclusion, honestly. “What do you do here?”

“I’m a mechanic. Can you tell me what _you_ do?” he asks carefully, like he’s not sure Steve will know the answer.

“Consulting. But I’m being reinstated as a ranger soon. I hope. I gave up, after…” he falters. “…after you. I thought maybe I could try a peaceful life. Traveling. Helping. I thought I was doing okay but I ended up back here after all.”

Bucky nods like his garbled explanation makes sense. Then he heaves a sigh of relief when they turn the corner and see the open doors to the infirmary. “Last few feet. Come on.”

Steve is mostly steady by now, but he’s disinclined to let go of Bucky. A nurse sees them come in and hurries over, showing them straight to an exam room. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothing. I’m all right now,” Steve says just as Bucky tells her, “I think he may have a concussion.”

“I haven’t fallen or anything. Not on my head,” Steve protests, but the nurse looks at Bucky expectantly.

“He seems confused, and he thinks I’m someone else. He almost collapsed outside.”

She slips her fingers under the sleeve of Steve’s drivesuit and checks his pulse. “Can you tell me who you are?”

“Officer Steven Rogers. My ID is… oh, it’s still in the room. You can ask Sharon—Officer Carter.”

“You’re not a ranger?”

“Being reinstated. I was doing a Drift test…” Steve trails off when the nurse flashes a penlight in his eyes. “And then I saw Bucky.”

“He thinks that’s me,” Bucky volunteers as he unclips his own ID from his pocket, offering it to the nurse. She checks it quickly before handing it back. “Is he going to be okay?”

“We’ll have to do a few tests. If you’re not next of kin, I’ll have to ask you to leave, though,” she answers apologetically. “You can wait just outside if you’d like.”

“No, I have to be getting back to work. I just wanted to be sure he would be looked after.”

“Of course. We’ll need you to sign a few things at the front desk, and they’ll put it in the system in case your supervisor asks. Thank you for bringing him in, Mister Volkov.”

It’s like a slap to the face to hear the nurse confirm the name Bucky had given him. He does what he realizes he should have done in the first place and reads the ID all personnel must carry around. There, beside a picture of a scowling Bucky, is the name ‘Volkov, Ilya’ in neat, bold letters.

Impossible. There has to be some kind of explanation for it all, because Steve knows that he isn’t crazy. But… well, thinking that Bucky’s been hiding this whole time, that the PPDC has hidden him for some reason—it sounds pretty paranoid. There’s nothing he can think of that would explain this easily, or at least without making him sound like he’s had a psychotic break. The most logical explanation is that this man is who he says he is: Ilya Volkov, apparently from somewhere in Russia if his ID is to be believed. Maybe throwing himself back into the Drift had a bigger impact than he thought.

That’s what the rational part of his mind says, and that’s the part he intends to listen to. For now. At the very least, it’s the part that will get him through the examination that’s sure to follow. He needs to stay here, not just so he can fulfill his duty, but now so he can dig up more on this Ilya and what he might have to do with Bucky. If Steve is wrong—

He isn’t.

But if he is, maybe this Ilya is related to Bucky somehow. Maybe, at least, Steve can have some kind of closure.  


* * *

  
  
He’s ‘strongly advised’ to take a week of medical leave. The doctor who says it uses such a firm tone that it’s more like a demand than a suggestion, and they mandate the use of a counselor for that time in order to re-evaluate his fitness for the Drift. It drives him up the wall because he _knows_ he’s sane, but as loath as he is to admit it, he understands why they’re doing it. He’ll just have to… bend the truth a little, is all. He assures himself that if it gets any worse he’ll come clean, maybe fake another break—he won’t admit that if it gets any worse, he probably will have broken after all—and gets through his next session with, he feels, just the right amount of distress.

Yes, being in the Drift without his old partner was hard. No, he doesn’t feel like it’s a betrayal of the relationship he used to have.

Yes, he almost collapsed yesterday. The man seemed the spitting image of his partner—wouldn’t anyone feel confused? No, he’s obviously not Bucky. No, he doesn’t think there’s some kind of conspiracy against him. No, he hasn’t been having ‘visions’ of Bucky since his death.

He runs into Cassie the next day, while he’s helping out in the kitchens for lack of anything else to do. In true Lang fashion, she’s somehow charmed her way into the cooks’ good graces, and he catches her while she’s chatting up someone and taste-testing the soup. He pulls her aside to apologize—he left her without even a debrief, after all, and he’d completely blindsided her with his memory. Nearly chased the rabbit and dragged her alongside. He’s supposed to be the experienced one; the responsible one. To his surprise, though, she’s oddly philosophical about the whole thing.

“It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into. All our instructors—you included—try to prepare us for the Drift, about the dangers of being in someone else’s head. And I got a file to read, so I knew something bad happened to your partner, before. And I know being a ranger is dangerous. I just… didn’t put it all together like that until then.” She drums her fingers on a countertop, looking thoughtful. “Actually, I’m kind of grateful. I know that seeing it through you isn’t the same as living it, but… well, if the worst that happened was that I tossed my cookies and maybe have some nightmares, I guess I’m kind of proud of myself. It’s good to know that I’m as tough as I think I am.”

She pauses, glancing around for eavesdroppers, but the kitchen is loud with the sounds of preparation and cooking, effectively covering up their conversation. “I know it’s late, and it probably doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry about what happened. To both of you. And I’m good at keeping secrets—I won’t tell anyone about it, I promise.” She sketches an X overtop her heart solemnly.

“Thank you,” he manages.

She surprises him by leaning in and giving him a quick side-hug, a comforting squeeze more than anything, then backs up like she’s not sure if she’s about to be reprimanded. When he doesn’t say anything to her, she just nods like they’ve made some kind of agreement and turns to leave.

“Lang,” he calls. She stops mid-motion, giving him her attention again. “You’re going to make a great ranger someday.”

She nods slowly, taking in the implication of what he’s saying before offering him a genuine smile. “Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to it.”  


* * *

  
  
He doesn’t mean to run into Bucky’s doppelganger in the halls—it’s pure coincidence. It’s still a shock the second time, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s been shot in the gut.

“Bu—” He has to swallow down the first name that comes to his lips. “Ilya.”

He’s not in his mechanic’s uniform, which makes the resemblance even more striking. Steve has to remind himself again that he doesn’t have proof positive of who this man is or isn’t. That all he knows is that he could be Bucky’s twin in looks, and that they’re pretty much strangers.

“The ranger. Steve, wasn’t it?” Bucky’s—no, _Ilya’s_ —lips quirk into a hesitant smile. “You’re looking well. Feeling better?”

“I… yeah, I am.” Ilya’s expression relaxes. Was he genuinely worried about Steve? “I didn’t get a chance to thank you, before.”

“You were very…” He considers his words. “Very distraught. It’s good to see you are recovering.”

‘Distraught’ is a very nice way to describe how Steve was acting that day, he thinks. “You did a lot for me, considering I’m a stranger to you.” He watches the other man’s reaction closely, but he doesn’t see any surprise or suspicion there. It’s just sympathy, and maybe some modesty.

“ _You_ did not treat _me_ as a stranger. Whoever you thought I was, you obviously cared very deeply for him.”

Steve swallows hard. Bucky doesn’t even remember his own name. _Unless that’s not his name. Unless you really have the wrong guy,_ part of his mind whispers. “Bucky. I thought—I thought you were Bucky. He was my co-pilot, before he...”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Steve has to close his eyes against the deluge of memories, but he needs to say it out loud. Maybe… maybe if he does, that will be the thing that gets Bucky to remember. “We were stationed in the Nome Shatterdome,” he starts, “Back when it was still pretty new.” He glances up, and realization seems to be dawning in those familiar grey eyes. It’s not what Steve would want Bucky to remember first, but if it works… “There were only two jaegers stationed there at the time, both teams pretty young. We were the senior pair, only five years in the field. We thought there was only the one kaiju.”

He can almost hear the pounding rain; almost feel the weight of the helmet pressing down on him.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s all right. I want to.” He waits for Ilya to subside before continuing. “We terminated one, but there was a second out there. Took us by surprise. We knew something was off—I should have seen it coming. It, uh. It took out the entire left side of the Guardian Aegis. Bucky’s side.” He heaves a shaky sigh. “I don’t remember a lot after that. But no one else got hurt.”

“ _You_ were hurt,” Ilya says softly, and Steve has to blink hard or else he’ll cry. There was no sudden ‘eureka’ moment; no tears on Bucky’s end, or a flash of light or… He doesn’t know what he expected. “I’ve heard about the Nome incident. I did not realize that was you.”

And there it is, in words. If this is Bucky, he doesn’t remember. Doesn’t remember Steve, or the Academy, or growing up together. Doesn’t remember loving him, Drifting with him, promising to stay with him. God, if this isn’t Bucky, then he’s just bared his soul to a complete stranger. He’s made himself vulnerable. Naked.

Ilya bites his lip— _don’t think about Bucky, how he used to do that too, uncertain but bracing to do it anyway_ —then nods to himself and starts to shed the hoodie he has on, shrugging it off his shoulders until he’s barely hanging onto it by his fingertips. He has short sleeves on underneath, giving Steve a perfect view of his left arm. An arm made entirely of shining, silver metal. Fitted plates settle as Ilya flexes it subconsciously, opening and closing his hand in a gesture of unease while he waits, keeping his eyes on Steve.

“Does—”

“You—”

Steve stops and gestures for Ilya to go first.

“You can touch it, if you want. Most people, that’s what they ask first. ‘Can I touch it?’”

“Shouldn’t it be ‘can I touch _you_ ’?” It’s his arm, after all. Even sculpted to look like one, matching his right almost perfectly. Ilya snorts and Steve realizes with no little embarrassment what he’s just said. “I should have found another way to say that,” he mutters.

“No. I—” Ilya shrugs. “It isn’t bad,” he says carefully. “And you may touch me, yes.” He holds out his left hand patiently, uncurling his fingers in a movement so smooth that if hadn’t been touching the unyielding metal, Steve would think it was merely an illusion.

“I was going to ask if you have full range of motion.” Glancing up to get permission, he moves Ilya’s fingers, pressing their palms together to feel the difference in texture. “You’re cold.”

“It is cold here,” Ilya points out. He wiggles his fingers, brushing them against Steve’s palm gently enough to tickle. “It moves as a normal arm moves, but the strength is sometimes harder to control. Useful for tightening screws; to loosen something stubborn. I am very good with jars if given a rubber cloth,” he adds dryly.

“Does it have feeling?”

“Yes. Until here.” He rolls up his sleeve and—oh. The arm is grafted to his body in a mass of thick scars, and he’s rubbing the join of metal to flesh almost absentmindedly. “I do not remember what happened to it. I know I woke up in pain. Some of the arm was left, but…” He shrugs. “Frostbite. To prevent infection, more had to be taken. I’m told I was lucky to live.”

Steve realizes that he’s still touching Ilya’s bicep, fingers getting dangerously close to the flesh at his shoulder. He backs up a step, guiltily meeting the mechanic’s eyes. Ilya looks thoughtful, though, not impatient or awkward or upset.

“I am not your dead friend,” he says finally. “But maybe I could be your alive one?”

“Why?” he blurts out because, Bucky or not, this is the closest thing Steve has and he’d already convinced himself that he’d pushed him away. Now he’s being offered friendship and here he is, looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

“Why?” Ilya echoes. “Because you seem like a good man, and there are not enough good people in this world. Because I think you’re lonely. Because now we know each other’s scars. Because,” he says, holding Steve’s gaze, “you called out to me and I helped you, and I think that people who help each other create a bond.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes, because he doesn’t think that’s the way Bucky would say it, but he does think that’s something Bucky would mean. There’s something about the core of him that shines through—even if this _isn’t_ James Barnes, they’ve got the same soul. 

“I’d like that,” he rasps, and he has to clear his throat to make sure his next words come out clear. “I’d like that very much.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	6. Chapter 6

Despite having been here for several weeks, he’s never actually squared off with Natasha Romanov before. He’s just finished a three-point round with Clint, who complained that hitting Steve was like hitting a brick wall despite the fact that there had never been any real impact. Steve would suspect he sic’d his co-pilot on him out of spite except that Natasha had demanded to ‘reclaim their honor’ of her own accord. It’s a favor to him, he knows, helping him get adjusted faster to the more intense ranger training.

She draws him in with careful dodges, barely out of reach; letting him grab her for a throw only to counter and slide out of the way; trying to get him frustrated. When he was younger, maybe it would have worked, but now he just waits her out, feints and keeps himself solidly planted because he can tell already that if his feet leave the ground, he’s lost.

Natasha closes the distance between them in a flurry of acrobatic blows that force Steve into hard blocks to stop from losing ground, finally stopping a kick with crossed wrists, twisting to get a grip on her ankle and hooking a leg behind her knee. Whatever compunctions Steve has about getting sent flying, Natasha has no such hesitations, and she takes the momentum to spin to the floor and slide out of his reach, leaping from the mats to tackle him at an angle just above his center of gravity and send them both sprawling to the floor. He’s quick to roll them over where his superior weight will give him an advantage, but she manages to hook her ankles around his neck and yank, forcing him off or risk cutting off his air. He rolls free and waits for her to bounce back up, breathing hard, and it startles him to realize that for the first time in a long time, he’s having _fun_.

He's _finally_ gotten a point against her when the sound of clapping penetrates his concentration. Shaking sweat from his eyes, he bows to Natasha quickly before looking around. There hadn’t been much of an audience when they’d started—just Clint and Cadet Bishop, although he’d noticed Kaplan enter at some point. Now, Sharon and Marshal Fury stand there, along with Lang and a strike team member he doesn’t recognize. If his cheeks hadn’t already been pink with exertion, he might have blushed. 

“Congratulations, Rogers. Looks like you found someone new to try and Drift with.”

“Sir,” Steve starts. Natasha already _has_ a Drift partner, and he’s standing right there.

“Relax, Steve.” Natasha comes and puts a calming hand on his arm. “I already volunteered.”

“But Clint—”

“—knows.” She glances up and everyone else promptly pretends they have better things to do. Fury and Sharon are already on their way out. “I could use a walk to cool down. How about you?”

Clint seems unconcerned, already back to a conversation with Bishop and paying them no mind at all. Steve nods and follows Natasha off the mats and toward the locker room.

“It took me a while to place you,” Natasha says conversationally, stretching to make sure she doesn’t cramp. “I had to ask Officer Carter, but we shared the same first posting when we graduated.”

“Hong Kong?” Steve thinks hard, going through the possibilities. If it was their first posting, that means the would have been the same graduating class. Natasha Romanov…

“I piloted the Red Ledger, then.”

His eyes widen. “I remember you. You and… Yelena?”

She hums an affirmative. “We ended up stationed at Sydney a few years later. Lost the Red Ledger to a pair of Cat-3s. Had to eject mid-battle.” She takes a swig from her water bottle. “Her pod cracked. Drivesuits only give us so much protection against something like Kaiju Blue.”

He’s at a loss for words. “Natasha, I’m so sorry.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Thank you, but I’m not telling you this for your sympathy. Clint used to pilot with his brother, but Barney has more issues than a magazine subscription. His second partner washed out, and I’m the third.” They stop so Natasha can look him in the eye, looking kind and weary and understanding and determined all at once. “The point is that we’re… adaptable. I won’t pretend to know what your loss was like, but both of us know what loss is. It’ll be a nice change of pace to have a different partner because of choices we were able to make for ourselves.”

“Even if we’re Drift compatible, it won’t change the number of jaegers in the field. You’d be better off staying with the partner you already know,” Steve points out.

“Did you hear anything I just said? Barton’s successfully co-piloted with three people so far, and those are just in the long-term. He’s perfectly capable of Drifting with one of the cadets. Personally, I think it’s because he has no shame. Easier to Drift if you don’t care what people see.”

Steve falls silent and Natasha lets him mull it over, taking the opportunity to drain her water bottle. He wants to get in the field and Lang is out of the question. He _could_ try with another cadet, but he already has more in common with Natasha. It will probably be temporary, anyway. The threat will escalate or it won’t, and Fury will either be shut down or get enough backing that Steve can breathe easy. Find a proper co-pilot, or maybe apply for an instructor position at the Academy.

“We still have to be able to establish a neural handshake,” he says slowly.

“We will. So, is that a yes?”

It is.  
  


* * *

  
  
“You’re sad.”

Steve looks up from where he’s sitting on the cold metal of the platform above the jaeger bays. He’s stuck his legs under the lowest guard rail so he can dangle his feet into the open air, arms folded across the railing so he can hunch over it and look at the activity below. Not that there’s much of it going on at this hour.

Ilya sits and shuffles around until he can mimic Steve’s pose, the two of them swinging their feet like schoolboys. He’s close enough that Steve is acutely aware of his body; his warmth. How, if he leaned just a couple inches to the left, they could press their shoulders together. Except that he still doesn’t know where this relationship is going, and he doesn’t want to ruin one of the only good things he has. He’s attracted to Ilya, of course. Not just because he looks like Bucky, but because of his ash-and-hot-metal smell, and the enthusiasm he has for his job, and how comfortably and naturally he handles himself despite the prosthetic. How can he not be attracted to the little smiles and compassionate glances and quiet but absolute support? The problem is that he doesn’t know if _Ilya_ is attracted to _him_.

“You’re a ranger now. I thought you would be happy.” Ilya taps Steve’s ankle with his own, prompting him.

“Word travels fast,” Steve remarks. He’d only been officially reinstated that afternoon. He was going to tell Ilya of his new status tomorrow, if he could catch him in the mess. Looks like there’s no need.

“And Tracer Spider is a good jaeger. She will treat you well. So, why are you sad?”

“What makes you think I’m sad?” he hedges instead of answering outright.

“Because you pinch your eyebrows together _here_ ,” Ilya says seriously, using his thumb to smooth out the offending area. What’s more, he’s right. It isn’t until he draws attention to it that Steve realizes he’s been furrowing his brows. He frowns even harder at being caught out, which makes Ilya grin at him and knock their feet together again.

Steve sighs and makes an effort to relax his body language, laying his cheek across his folded arms. “It was my fault,” he admits quietly. So quietly that he isn’t even sure Ilya hears him at first. Then the Russian leans in that extra inch so that their shoulders just barely touch and hooks Steve’s ankle with his own: two little points of contact to keep Steve grounded. Bucky had been easily physical, but Ilya isn’t, not really. They’re only ever these small things, and Steve finds himself treasuring them all the more for it.

“You’re talking about your Bucky,” Ilya murmurs.

That’s how Ilya always says it: ‘your Bucky,’ so completely divorced from himself. Steve thinks he gets it, on some level; no one likes being compared to other people, not even if it might be their past self. _Especially_ their past self.

“I’m the one who made the call. To go in without backup. The pair for Silver Hex were so young, they were practically kids. I had to do something, even if that meant dragging him along.”

“You were _all_ young.”

“But we were the senior team. We were supposed to be the experienced ones. I mean, Wanda and Pietro, they lived. I’d never want to change that, and I don’t think that… that Bucky would want to change it either. It’s just… God, why him.” He pulls away from the railing so he can hold himself, as though that will do something to ease the ache growing in his chest. “It was the right call,” he says aloud, whispered and deep like he’s asking for salvation.

Ilya unfolds himself from his position so he can get even closer to Steve, wrapping his arms around him and pressing lightly on the side of his head, until Steve gets the idea and lets himself lean on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Just because it was right does not mean it was easy. They say that one life is worth two, or two lives worth millions—that’s why you’re a ranger, yes? Saving lives at risk of yours. But you did not lose one life. You lost everything. Yet you are here, looking for something else to give. It is… noble. And stupid. Even if you are Drift compatible, that does not mean that you have to risk the little you’ve gained simply because you’ve done it before.” His voice is soothing this close, rumbling through his chest, the shape of words on his lips forming against the crown of Steve’s head.

They sit there together until their legs start to numb and Steve begins to shiver, and they don’t need to say anything at all.  
  


* * *

  
  
Steve has taken to working in the lab in the evenings. He’s still the Assault Specialist, after all, and just because his mornings are taken up with training and his cadets is no reason to fall behind on his other duties.

To be honest, Steve rather likes working at the lab every few days. It’s not quiet, precisely, but the soft hum of machinery and rustling of papers and gentle rumble of chairs being rolled around is almost peaceful in how mundane it is. He’s not really a scientist, but the others don’t question his presence and, for the most part, leave him alone unless he looks particularly lost. Also, the lab almost always got someone in it, either the early birds or the night owls, and their erratic hours mean that none of them question Steve’s choices, either.

Steve has set up a hand-drawn copy of a map and is carefully putting multicolored marks on kaiju encounters and possible trajectories, one scientist helping by flipping through reports and giving him coordinates, when the door opens again and someone new enters. Normally no one would pay it much mind, but whoever it is beelines for them. Steve marks the latest coordinate and turns to look.

Natasha stands there, eyes flicking over his handiwork which, he admits, looks a little like an ideas-web for a conspiracy theory at this point. His shared desk is currently scattered with graphs and sticky notes, which he’s sure doesn’t help his case any.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, not looking sorry in the slightest, “But I need to borrow Ranger Rogers here.”

Steve’s temporary companion looks between them uncertainly before standing up. “Uh, sure. I have to check the centrifuge anyway. I’ll just be in there if you need me.”

“Thanks, Rose.” She waves away his thanks easily, replacing her chair before moving to the instruments room, pointedly giving Steve and Natasha their privacy.

“Do you do anything other than work and train?” Natasha asks, leaning against the only park of the desk not covered in papers.

It’s a rhetorical question, but he still answers it. “Sometimes I like to torment the cadets. I’m planning on running a full drill tomorrow. You develop a sudden interest in K-Science?”

Her eyes are quickly scanning the materials he has strewn all over, but as soon as he calls her out, she stops and looks him dead in the eye. It’s uncomfortably like being peered at through a microscope, and he wonders if she’s looking for something or if she’s already found it. Attempting to avoid her gaze without being too obvious about it, he starts tidying up for the night.

“We need to talk about James.”

His grip tightens, crumpling the papers he has in his hands so that he has to make a conscious effort to stop and smooth them out. He exhales slowly for a moment, blowing all the air out of his lungs and taking another deep breath before answering. “You’ve been in my head. I’m not sure there’s anything else to talk about, Natasha. Or if there is, it’s probably something I should take to a counselor.”

“Then did you tell your counselor about James’ doppelganger?”

Steve bristles. “What do you think got me benched in the first place? I know they’re not the same; I overreacted but I’m getting over it.”

“You aren’t.” Natasha leans in close enough that even if there were others in the room, they wouldn’t be able to hear. “You said it yourself: I was in your head. But I’m not here to turn you in, or to tell you you’re crazy.” She sits back with a shrug. “I’m here to tell you that I’ll look into it, if you’ll let me.”

He feels like he’s getting whiplash from this conversation. “What? Why?”

“Because you can’t. If you try to access his files or push for more info, you’ll be under scrutiny again. They might bench you permanently, and you’re not the only one who thinks that this new Breach is more than just conjecture. Sure, it’s a one in a million chance that James survived—but so are the chances of running into someone who looks identical to him. It’s a mystery, and I hate mysteries. So, do you want me to look into it or not?”

Steve gets the distinct feeling that she knows the answer already and is only asking out of courtesy. Maybe he should be more wary—he hardly knows her, after all, even if they’ve been in the Drift together. But no one ever accused him of being a careful person.

“Yes. What do you need from me?”

Natasha smiles, slow and catlike. “Nothing at all. Just sit pretty and keep on doing your job, Rogers.” 

When she’s gone, Steve sighs and leans back in his chair. Right now, he has no idea what she’s planning, and he won’t until they enter the Drift again. Even then, it’s possible for her to make it difficult to find that information, as experienced as she is, and he has no desire to pry into her mind more than happens naturally. Best course of action is to do as she said, although he has no intention of simple sitting here. If there’s nothing he can do about Ilya, he’s damn well going to use that energy somewhere else.

Rose peeks back into the room a half hour later, obviously checking to see if she’ll be intruding, and Steve just beckons her in.

“Still working on the map?” she asks sympathetically.

“Something’s off and I just don’t know what it is. Ten years ago, it was escalating beyond what we could handle. Then it stopped.”

“When they closed the first Breach.”

“Right, but it opened for no reason in the first place—”

“There’s always a reason.”

Steve makes a frustrated noise. “Then what is it?”

“I’m a biologist,” Rose says in apologetic tones. “If you wanted to know how they reproduce, or the chemical composition of their soft tissue, or their brains’ abnormal sensitivity to low-frequency waves, I’d be your woman. But with behavior, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Steve stops glaring at the map and turns to the scientist again. Something niggles at his mind. Something about waves?

“Like electromagnetic waves?” he asks, digging through the drawers assigned to him. It should be somewhere around his notes about Breach frequency…

“Exactly! It’s interesting because they’re so incredibly resistant to ionizing radiation—the opposite end of the spectrum, high-frequency waves like x-rays and gamma rays. In a carbon-based life-form, frequent exposure mutates DNA, but kaiju have no reaction to them one way or the other. But there’s evidence that suggests their tissue may react to frequencies even below 300Hz. Well, react more than most carbon-based lifeforms.”

“And that’s… good?”

Rose shrugs. “Not good or bad; just interesting. Below 30Hz is the point at which some theorize animals subconsciously react to before disasters like tsunami and earthquakes. Kaiju are colossal creatures so it’s unusual to be so sensitive, but then again we’ve never dealt with non-carbon-based life-forms. It could be something intrinsic to their molecular structure, or some kind of evolutionary component. We just don’t know yet.”

Steve finds the file he was looking for, shoving papers to the side to make space. There: extremely-low frequency electromagnetic waves, and his careful notations of file numbers to look up. Maybe he’s just chasing his tail, but all the talk about tsunamis and DNA and _reasons_ has him thinking.

“If you want to know more about electromagnetics, the head of engineering or Doctor Banner might be more helpful. Although Doctor Banner specializes in ionizing radiation,” she adds thoughtfully. “Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“You’ve been a huge help,” he disagrees, already adding _‘Sensitive, 300Hz?’_ and _‘Earthquake? Lighting?_ to his notes. He starts unpinning the map from the board, rolling it tightly in hopes of keeping it from wrinkling. If Steve’s memories of his time at the academy serve, Stark might actually still be awake at this hour.  
  


* * *

  
  
He finally runs Stark to ground in an out-of-the-way office in the J-Tech wing, tinkering with something clunky but important-looking. Taking a deep breath, Steve braces himself for the very real possibility of being turned down or treated like an idiot, and knocks loudly on the door frame.

“Unless you’re a cheeseburger or the reincarnation of Alan Turing, I don’t have time for you,” Tony says without looking up.

Steve considers apologizing and coming back later. Tony _does_ look busy. But the thing about the Breach is that it can open at any time and without much warning, and Steve needs to see if this can be done before another kaiju emerges.

“Doctor Connors in K-Science told me you’d know more about extremely low frequency waves,” he says instead, putting as much innocence as he can muster into his voice. Tony’s head snaps up, an irritated expression fixed on his face until he looks and realizes that his mystery visitor is Steve. He doesn’t exactly smile, but the annoyance drops off and he actually puts down what he was tinkering with.

“Thought you were one of the baby engineers,” Tony explains, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands with. “Normally, I’d still tell you to get lost and come back tomorrow, but now I’m interested. Ranger interrupts me with a physics question in the middle of the night? It’s gotta be important. Or interesting, at least. What do you want to know?”

“Rose said something about earthquakes and animals being able to sense them because of the—” Steve can tell he’s losing Tony’s attention from the way he starts looking at the thing on the table again. He was trying to segue into things, but maybe his normal, blunt approach is better here. “Can the frequency be used to communicate? Like with radio waves?”

Tony frowns at him and looks disappointed. “Sure. We used them for subs back in the day, but they closed all those facilities, oh, decades ago. But no one bothers anymore. Not cost-efficient.” He’s already turning away dismissively. “To transmit you need a huge antenna, and the information you can send is extremely limited. The range is fantastic since frequencies that low aren’t stopped by most things, but if you were hoping to revolutionize pilot communiqué, that ship sailed a long time ago. We’re better off sticking to radio for communication.” Stark huffs a sigh. “And here I thought you were bringing me something interesting.”

Steve ignores the insult, because he’s pretty sure he’s heard what he wants. “It’s possible, then. To communicate on that frequency?” He puts down his notes and finds a little blank space to scribble on.

“Did you hear anything I just said? Yes, but it’s cost-prohibitive and inefficient. I thought you practical-types were all about efficiency. It’s the scientists who are supposed to want to do something just because we can.”

“How big does something need to be to pick up the signal, though,” he presses, ignoring the digs at himself. If it were for anything less he might be irked by now, but he’s too busy hoping that what he wants can be done. “I know it’s possible because the sensors for Breach activity pick some of it up, but I don’t know what the equipment for that is like.”

“For what? Extremely low frequencies?”

Steve nods.

“Not as big as you think. It’s transmitting them that’s the costly part.”

“What about frequencies lower than 100 hertz or so? Could a receiver for that be installed in something mobile?” He finds the roll of paper he wants, unraveling enough to show how the readout stops at about that range, causing interruptions in one of the colored lines. Steve has made notes on this one on carefully secured pieces of paper, and Tony drags the whole thing closer to glance it over.

“Like a jaeger?” Tony asks shrewdly.

Steve nods.

“Hypothetically, yes. But why in a jaeger?” When Steve just stays silent, Tony stops poking at the paper, straightening up and pinning him with his intelligent gaze. “If it was regular data collection, you’d ask the Breach Research division. They might be able to increase the range of their instruments. The only reason for a portable receiver is communication. So who are you trying to listen to?” 

“I just need to know if you’ll—”

Tony’s eyes widen. “It’s not a—” He stops to lean in closer, lowering his voice to a hiss. “It’s not a ‘who,’ it’s a ‘what,’ isn’t it?”

Caught. Steve chews on his lower lip for a moment before reluctantly nodding. “I know how it sounds, and I know that this isn’t really my field, but—”

“You think kaiju talk to each other through ELF waves?”

“I think they have to communicate somehow; some look like they can work together to coordinate attacks—”

“What about body language? Sound? Those are the leading theories,” Tony fires back. But he’s already rummaging around in a drawer, pulling out a thick pad of paper that he promptly starts drawing on.

“I know I’m not a scientist, but a pattern is a pattern,” Steve says firmly. He starts to pull out more of his notes. “I don’t have enough to prove or disprove anything because none of the data I’ve found goes low enough, I think, not even the sensors closest to the Breach. Any Breach.”

“You know this sounds like a crack-brained theory, right?” Tony asks, still sketching away. “You’re basically saying that they’re telepathic.”

“That’s why I need more evidence first. It might be nothing, but I won’t know if I can’t see what goes on below this line.” He taps the chart again in frustration.

“The land of mystery,” Tony observes. “Schrodinger's Frequency. Normally, I’d tell you that you’re asking the wrong person for the job. It makes more sense to take this to Breach Research, see if they can attenuate their instruments.” Steve opens his mouth to argue. “ _But_.” Tony waves around his pencil emphatically, “You’d have to argue with them and they’d want to drag Nick into it and everyone would say it’s impossible. So you came to the right person because I specialize in impossible things, or at least the ones that are actually possible. I’ll make your receiver on two conditions.”

Steve nods cautiously. Tony is too smart for his own good, probably.

“One: I get full credit for my contribution to this discovery, if it pans out. If it doesn’t then you’ve obviously somehow tricked me into wasting PPDC resources and it’s all your fault. Two: If it _does_ prove out, I get to be there when you tell the marshal and Bruce, because their expressions will be priceless and should be witnessed first-hand so I can treasure the image in my old age.”

Damn, Steve hadn’t really thought of the cost before he’d asked. He hadn’t even been sure what he wanted could be done—he’d thought that maybe the reason the cutoff was at 100 hertz was because it was difficult or not possible to accurately detect lower.

“I can’t ask you to do something that might take resources away from other projects in the Shatterdome,” Steve says reluctantly. He might have to do as Tony suggested and go to Breach Research after all.

“I was kidding,” Tony says quickly. “I mean, it’ll take some resources, but I’m a resourceful guy. There’s plenty of discarded pieces lying around that no one will miss. I’m definitely the most valuable part of the whole equation and it’s not like Nick can tell me what to do in my own free time.”

Steve actually thinks that the marshal might be able to do that. Not that it would be successful against Stark, he suspects.

“So, do we have a deal? My name in lights and a look at the shock on the faces of my colleagues in exchange for your chance to gather data?”

“Yes.” Steve nods firmly, holding out his hand, but Tony is already bent over his paper, intent, apparently, on his newest project.

“Good. And don’t forget: If the whole thing turns out to be a dud, I’m an innocent bystander who gets to watch you get in trouble.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Steve’s training picks up in an effort to get him into peak fighting condition before another kaiju appears. There’s no pattern to when a Breach will open—the next emergence could be tomorrow or a month from now or even never again, although Steve highly doubts that last one. So even when things are quiet, rangers must be ready to move at any given time. Fury orders several tests to determine Steve’s current state of readiness, his retention of knowledge, and his current limits. They cram it all into a single week that turns hellish very quickly, though he sets his jaw and powers through. If he didn’t break when Bucky died, he sure as hell won’t now, even if he has to endure most of it on his own, with Natasha only joining him for fighting simulations. 

The strenuous pace of his training only cures Steve’s insomnia for a few days. Before the first week is out, he’s returned to wandering the halls at night, often in search of his friend. It’s not as though they have standing dates and times to meet, but more often than not one of them can be found somewhere on the upper walkway of the main jaeger hangar. It isn’t until their casual touching becomes more common that Steve realizes that he’s missed having steady human contact. Bucky had been a naturally tactile person, and Steve didn’t know how much he’d taken those easy interactions for granted. 

One night, he cautiously wraps one arm around Ilya’s waist, testing his reception, relieved when the other man’s response is to do the same while he continues his tale of an incautious coworker. It makes Steve feel warm and relaxed, and Ilya wakes him up not a half-hour later with a smile and an admonishment to go to bed. When he tries to stand, the exhaustion hits him and he sways, so Ilya gets up and walks him to his quarters like a proper gentleman. As they stop outside his door, there’s a moment when they look at each other, Ilya’s silvery gaze intense, and Steve finds himself focusing on the other man’s lips, his warmth and proximity. He wonders if maybe he’s not the only one who feels the shivery tension; that maybe Ilya wants to kiss him, and he finds himself leaning in subconsciously. But then Ilya laughs and tells him that he should go to bed if he’s so unsteady, so Steve writes it off as a trick of his sleep-drunk mind and tells himself he isn’t disappointed.

Between it all, he doesn’t have very much time to find and check up on Tony. He hears no rumors of his crackpot theory, so it’s safe to assume that the engineer has kept his word about the secrecy, at least. Ideally, though, Stark’s receiver will be ready and installed before the next kaiju emergence, so Steve is anxious to talk to him again. He's _finally_ gotten enough free time to walk briskly through the J-Tech wing to try and find Tony when the kaiju alarm goes off.

There’s a disorienting moment when his training both old and new kick in, and he starts running for the Drivesuit Room while part of him attempts to remind him that his new place is in mission control. It makes him stop in the middle of the hallway in confusion, mixed signals forcing his steps to slow. _Then_ he feels ridiculous because he’s been reinstated for two weeks now, and Natasha is definitely going to see this in the Drift and make that amused-at-others’-expense face at him.

Natasha and Clint are already in the Drivesuit room, and they switch to helping each other suit up as soon as Steve appears, freeing up a tech to help him.

“Category 3, codename Cetus spotted, already heading towards Ushuaia. The goal is to intercept before they get there, and hold until they can send Berserker Blade from their Shatterdome.” Sharon marches in briskly, Fury likely already in mission control. “Sensors say it hasn’t moved yet, but we still want everyone to load out as soon as possible.”

Bishop bolts into the room just in time, hair sloppily braided back and already reaching for her leg armor.

“Katie! I was beginning to think I’d have to try out the new jaeger without you,” Clint greets affably. Steve levels Kate with his best look of disapproval, but in reality she’s made it well within the time frame. She needs to collect herself before entering the Drift, though, and that will cost them more time that they might not have.

“We’re headed out first, then,” Natasha declares, picking up her helmet. One of the Tracer Spider techs leads the way to their Conn-Pod and helps them get settled, systems checks already pouring in through the communication lines.

Maybe because Steve only ever Drifted with Bucky before, but no matter how many times they’ve practiced, Drifting with Natasha is always both alien but familiar in its strangeness. She’s  
_pirouette plié sauté again again can’t slow down keep up, child, keep up, again_  
get up, Steve, get up _shouting in his ear again, again, don’t stay down, can’t stay down, get up, again_  
_little girls in little dresses but blood and crying. better, do better, be better or be nothing, you’re nothing_  
_mouth full of blood and grit pull yourself up off the floor and try again someone’s waiting for him with worried eyes and tired smile_  
_fighting fluid, guess was good for something, vicious pride in herself for sending an opponent flying. fighting is something they can do, something no one can take from them even if they’re small, even if it’s not ladylike_  
_nervous at the first simulation, scores matter here, too few wins, too much damage and you wipe out, but they can do this, they won’t fail_

_:Both sides calibrated. Neural handshake strong and holding. Tracer Spider, stand by for deployment.:_

“Copy.” Natasha starts the sequence that will allow the drones to grab them easily at the end of the ramp.

“Standing by.” Steve braces himself because, no matter how many times he’s done this, the initial lift off the ground is never smooth and it’s best not to get knocked around so early in a fight.

_:This is Marshal Fury. You are to engage as soon as possible. Try to keep it pinned down so Amethyst Hawk can get a clean shot. Berserker Blade is our heavy hitter, and if ballistics fail to bring the kaiju down, you’re to buy time until their arrival. Understood?:_

“Copy.”

“Copy.”

It’s not hard to spot the kaiju when they get there, even as far away as they’ve been dropped. It courses through the water, jet-black in the sun, rows of beady eyes staring up at them from under thick layers of transparent tissue. It moves fast underwater, but Tracer Spider is built for more dexterity than most. If anyone can pin it down, it’s going to be them.

“Looks like a whale,” Natasha comments.

“Looks like that movie, Jaws,” Steve disagrees, but it’s mostly just to be ornery. There’s no fin involved, just the curved expanse of what he assumes is its head. Or maybe its back? With a kaiju, it can almost impossible to tell. But something churns behind it, roiling the waters like a turbine too close to the surface, and that’s what concerns Steve the most. “We need a better visual on whatever is behind it,” he mutters, and then heads off Natasha’s flare of impatience by hitting the switches to zoom in one of Tracer Spiders three cameras.

Her impatience vanishes as she studies the screen. “Are those—”

“Shit!” Steve swears as they raise an arm in time to catch—“Tentacles?!”

“Clint’s going to have a field day,” Natasha mutters. “Target locked. Preparing to fire first harpoon.”

Steve braces a foot back and rolls his shoulders, feeling the mounted harpoon engage. “Fire.”

The first two launch in quick succession, each finding a mark somewhere on the kaiju’s body. Normally, at this point, kaiju take one of two stances: try to drag Tracer Spider off-balance, or close in for a kill. Cetus does the latter, tentacles looping up the cables like vines on a trellis, following them up to the spools. Steve and Natasha start the winch, groan of cables resisting echoing through the jaeger competing with the whine of the Widow Bites. 

_:Amethyst Hawk engaging.:_

_:Holy shit, is that a Japanese tentacle monster?!:_

“Less hentai, more shooting!” Natasha snaps. They grab the closest tentacles and fire, hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity snapping through the kaiju at once, enough to shock it into slacking its grip and letting go. They release the lines and leap away all at once, backing up hastily and giving Amethyst Hawk a clear shot. They take it, railguns warming up with a high whine and the crack of her shots so explosively loud that it rattles them even inside the jaeger. Another set follows and the kaiju breaks surface for once, tentacles twisted tight together, jaw splitting the top of its head in a grotesque smile as it torpedoes for Amethyst Hawk.

Natasha and Steve grab two of the cables and yank, turning to add to the torque, screaming as the tension pulls at the jaeger’s hydraulic joints and loops the feedback into them. But it stops Cetus, or slows him down enough to make him victim to a spray of antitank missiles and forcing it back underwater.

They brace and prepare to haul Cetus in like a fish when suddenly, the lines go slack.

“We lost him; no visuals,” Steve pants.

 _:Us, too,:_ Clint confirms.

Both jaegers shift their weight, swiveling to try and detect the threat while Tracer Spider slowly reels in its lines. Unless it’s pulled out the last two barbed heads, they’ll find the kaiju at the end of it.

“Where the hell is it?” Natasha mutters.

 _:Tracer Spider, the signature is reading close by—it’s practically under you!:_ Hill barks over the comms. Like it was waiting for her to notice it, the kaiju springs into action, tentacles wrapping around their legs and yanking, submerging Tracer Spider despite their best efforts to right themselves. LOCCENT is in chaos and the jaeger’s robotic voice is warning them of sudden pressure change. The cameras are filled with almost nothing but white from the churning water above as they struggle to find enough slack to tangle into its tentacles in hopes of binding at least a few. Enough to buy time.

A sharp crack jars them in the Conn-Pod, the dull thud muffled by water but so strong it feels like it jolts in his heart. Another, and another, rapid succession until an alarm somewhere in the jaeger starts wailing and the cacophony of noise assaults them from all sides.

“LOCCENT, our underwater seals are compromised,” Natasha gasps as water sprays in from somewhere overhead, catching both of them in the freezing spray. Another leak springs somewhere below them, Tracer Spider’s readout flashing red as Steve and Natasha lurch and try to right themselves but still the blows keep coming. The jaeger topples completely, turtle on its back, pain shooting up their spines from the circuitry readout as the kaiju tries to grind them into the ocean floor. Steve realizes with a horrible kind of finality that something is wrong—that he can hear the water too clearly, that the groan of resisting metal is too sharp in his ears. That something… something _wet_ is getting into his eyes.

_:Tracer Spider, your oxygen level is dropping, what the hell is going on?:_

It shouldn’t be possible—drivesuits are airtight, meant to have oxygen pumped in at optimum levels for a pilot’s exertion. They shouldn’t have leaks in them. He can tell without looking that the same thing is happening to Natasha, that she’s tugging off her gloves to use the sensitive pads of her fingers to check for cracks in the seal even while the water continues to roil around them.

 _:Tasha, Steve, brace yourselves!:_ Another thud, a different kind this time, and the sonic crack of Amethyst Hawk’s railgun, shockwave felt even through the cushion of water, bullet impossible to track in the chaos except for the way the kaiju’s assault weakens, peeling away tentacles to reach for its new target, Tracer Spider’s cables still trailing.

Steve fumbles his hand free of the control and unlocks his helmet, yanking it off despite the protests he can hear over the comms. Natasha catches on quickly, unlocking her own helmet and yanking it off to drain the water. She pulls free of the rig in practiced motions, diving down to check the lines now under them. “Oxygen line’s ruptured,” she says grimly as soon as she resurfaces, “we have to eject.”

Steve is already treading water, trying the manual overrides in vain. “We can’t. Something’s jamming the hatch.”

“Guess there’s only one thing to do, then.” 

They might not be in the Drift, but they’re compatible for a reason. Steve grabs his helmet just as Natasha does hers, locking it into place. Deep breaths. Three, two, one—

He’s already under when something hits them, tossing him like a ragdoll saved only by the solid grip of the spinal and foot clamps. He loses half his air but there’s no time to resurface—there’s no telling when they’ll take a blow like that again, and the next time it could be worse. He struggles into the rest of the rig and locks his helmet into place, looking to the side and lifting his hand, seeing Natasha mimic the motion. They grab at the controls simultaneously and throw themselves back into the Drift.

She’s hurt; he can feel it immediately, the fiery pain in her right wrist, the same way she can feel the lack of oxygen in his lungs. No time. They have to get upright. Very few options from here, even less with Natasha struggling to move one hand.

 _We can do this._

Natasha nods and squares her shoulders, wrapping the cables around their arms and cranking the tension to their lines. It levers them up, uses the kaiju’s force against it. Pulls its tentacles in tight, cramping them, cutting into them like a garotte. They pull it away from Clint and Kate even while struggling upright, trying to get the Conn-Pod clear of the water before the need to breathe overwhelms them. 

Amethyst Hawk grabs for Cetus’ head, ignoring gnashing teeth to dig in deep, talons in a vise-grip to anchor it in place, stretching it, gaining distance from Tracer Spider like a mad game of tug-of-war. The water’s draining away but not fast enough. He releases the breath he’s holding slowly, trying to convince his body that he’s doing something to keep it alive.

_:—ease the cables. Tracer Spider, do you copy? Release the cable—:_

Steve doesn’t question it, even when it comes from his cadet. He reaches for the control that Natasha can’t, fumbles at it as his body gives up the fight not to inhale. The reels burst free of their moorings as burning ice floods his lungs and then back out again, trying to cough it back up in the enclosed space of his helmet. He can feel Natasha focusing, trying to keep him in the Drift without upsetting the delicate balance, knowing he’s already moving out of alignment.

He lets himself do what Natasha does, getting their feet under them, pushing up until they’re kneeling, cameras already over the surface of the water. She releases all the seals to divert the water faster and Steve paws at his helmet, desperate to evict the water from his lungs, desperate to _breathe_.

 _:—success,:_ he hears under the sound of his own retching, sound tinny and small from the water in his ears. When he looks up, Amethyst Hawk stands tall and proud, one talon dangling ribbons of flesh in gruesome banners while the kaiju itself hangs limp and tangled in black wires, impaled on Hawk’s heated blade, cherry-bright tip visible even in the daylight.

“LOCCENT, can you hear us?” Natasha calls, good hand on Steve’s back.

 _:Jesus, guys, you’re alive!:_ Bishop blurts out.

“Takes more than that to put us down,” Steve coughs. It doesn’t come out as clear as he would’ve liked, but the relieved laughter over the comms tells him it was good enough.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don’t play a ton of video games or just know random stuff about weapons, a railgun is a weapon that uses electromagnetic force to launch projectiles at high velocities along a set of rails. They’re not usually used with explosives since they rely on the speed to inflict damage.
> 
> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	7. Chapter 7

He’s going to kill him.

He’s glad that Steve is alive, but he’s going to _kill_ him.

Ilya stalks out of the med-bay, thwarted because Steve’s already been and gone, leaving only disapproving doctors and Ranger Romanova there to witness his rage. She looks at him appraisingly and tells him not to worry, that Rogers has been cleared and is on his way to his room. He isn’t worried; he’s _furious_. Ilya storms back out without a word, doesn’t even bother to listen to Romanova asking if he needs directions.

He catches up to Steve just as he reaches his door, and Ilya’s temper flares higher than ever. Steve is in standard-issue sweats with a blanket draped over his shoulders, hair wet, bruises disappearing under the neckline of his shirt making him look pitiful and Ilya _does not care_.

“ _пошел ьна хуй!_ ” he spits. “You’re lucky that ridiculous maneuver worked! I knew you were rash, but did you leave the bay with a death wish?!”

Steve backs up against his own door like he honestly thinks Ilya is going to hit him. He’s pale and looks clammy and sad and _injured_ and Ilya wants to punch him, he really does. “Well? Say something!”

“We were stuck. We didn’t have a lot of choices,” Steve rasps, and it sounds like he’s been gargling rusted nails. “Something was wrong with the escape pods.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m not on Tracer Spider’s team, but I have ears! You could have _drowned_ in there! You and Romanova both, but especially you because apparently you have rocks inside that skull of yours!” he shouts.

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells him quietly, not even trying to defend himself, the bastard. Not getting mad, not arguing that it wasn’t his fault. Just accepting Ilya’s anger for what it is, damn him. He wants to howl with frustration, the pressure of emotions tangling in his chest threatening to spill, to rip from him like the scream of a teapot too long on the stove. And Steve just keeps looking at him with those _eyes_ , sad and tired and impossibly blue and _lonely_ , so lonely, always afraid to reach out, and Ilya had been afraid, too. Is afraid now, under the electric thrill of anger and something else still struggling to emerge. He has to do something, hit or yell or sob or—

He grabs the front of Steve’s shirt violently, suddenly, and he can see Steve brace for a hit just before Ilya drags him in and kisses him.

It’s not sweet, not _nice_ like a first kiss should be. It’s full of his rage and fear and selfishness and relief and the almost-regret for the might-have-beens that he nearly lost because he’d been so stupidly _cautious_. 

Steve doesn’t move; freezes in his grip, and Ilya pulls away with a dawning horror of what he’s done. What he’s forced, what he’s ruined. But even that fuels the anger burning him up. He’ll feel it later, maybe, when—

Steve kisses him back. Lurches forward, letting the blanket around his shoulders slide to the ground so he can clutch at Ilya’s shirt, hands trembling as he presses chapped lips to his, clumsy but so good. Ilya presses back into it, harder, more demanding, taking ground as soon as Steve gives it. He wraps his arms around Steve, feeling the chill of his skin, and slides one hand up to press at his back to pull him closer. Steve breaks off the kiss with a soft exclamation, breath suddenly coming harsh. Ilya pauses; takes a half-step back, because that isn’t the kind of cry he wants to hear. Steve tries to shake it off, follow him, eyes begging for another kiss, but Ilya stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Take off your shirt.”

Steve hesitates, glancing to the side, at the long corridor stretching out to either side. Ilya reaches behind him and pushes the door open, shoving him inside, kicking it shut behind them. He turns Steve around roughly and jerks at the hem of his shirt with little warning, rucking it up to expose the expanse of his back.

A large bruise spreads across it, deceptively beautiful in lilac and blue hues staining like watercolor against pale skin. Ilya can feel the rage flare again, his grip on Steve’s hips tightening. That damage is the mark of an impact that could pierce skin and break bones because Steve is _human_ , goddamnit, even if he’s also a ranger.

“What the hell is this?” he snarls, like he can’t see it with his own eyes. Like Steve can somehow change the answer just by giving voice to it.

Steve shivers as he strips his shirt the rest of the way off. “Nothing’s broken,” he says instead of giving a proper answer.

“And you think that makes it all right?” He places a gentle hand on Steve’s back, fingers spread, feather-light in contrast to his hard words. “This could have broken your back. You could have died!” He feels his anger flicker for a dangerous moment but he _wants_ to be angry. It’s that or give in to the other emotions swimming just under the surface, and he’s not ready for those yet.

“This is my job,” Steve tells him quietly, turning around. He’s still flushed with desire, lips kiss-swollen and shiny, but his gaze is serious. “I won’t apologize, Ilya.”

“Fuck,” he spits. He knows that. Would never ask him to. But he’s so—he grabs Steve by the back of the head, threading metal fingers through his hair to pull him in for another furious kiss, breaking it off just as abruptly and pressing their foreheads together instead, breathing hard. “I know. I know that, and I don’t want your apologies. Not for that. It’s just...” He growls his frustration and kisses him again, trying to make Steve understand through the press of their bodies alone. Steve wraps his arms around him and Ilya thinks that maybe he understands after all. But if he doesn’t—if he doesn’t, Ilya will show him. He’s going to press his kisses and tears and breath and his whole being into Steve, until he knows exactly where he lies in the measure of Ilya’s life. So that maybe, _maybe_ he can understand what Ilya can’t put into words. Make sense of all this where Ilya can’t.

Whether he does yet is irrelevant because he parts his lips under Ilya’s newest assault; moans his approval at the way Ilya strokes the skin behind his ear with his thumb. Goes breathless when Ilya shoves one thick thigh between Steve’s legs, giving him something to grind against if he wants. Despite their interruption earlier, despite what must be no small amount of pain and exhaustion, Steve is hard for him, erection straining at the loose cotton of his pants. And Ilya wants it. Wants _him_ with the same sense of urgency that drove him to kiss Steve in the first place: the threat of having the chance torn from him unwilling. The need to prove himself _now_ , before the moment passes him by.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs, even though his hands shake with need, breath catching in his throat at the idea of being made to leave. But he will, if Steve asks it, because his answer is important—it’s _everything_. “Tell me.”

He can hear Steve swallow thickly; feel the trip of his pulse through the delicate skin of his neck. “Don’t stop, Ilya. Please. _Please_ ,” he begs, voice breaking, and the words are beautiful. So damn beautiful that Ilya could cry from them, so he puts it all into another biting kiss, right hand diving between them to push down the waistband of Steve’s pants and palm his erection. He swallows down the cry of surprise that Steve makes between them, relishing the scrape and scrabble of Steve’s fingers seeking purchase against his skin.

Too bad, because Ilya has other plans. He drops to his knees and pulls Steve’s pants down just enough to expose him, dick hard, tip already shiny and wet where it peeks from his foreskin. It’s been a while since Ilya has done this for anyone, but it doesn’t matter—the idea of having more of Steve is too alluring to warrant going slow. He dives in with no warning, careful of his teeth, and Steve gives a strangled shout. The dresser thumps as he throws one arm behind him to steady himself, the other going to Ilya’s head, clutching at his hair almost painfully before he realizes what he’s doing and lets go. Ilya ignores it all and takes more of him in until he’s practically gagging with it, working his tongue relentlessly, sealing his lips around soft skin and sucking. He has to put one hand up to Steve’s waist to help steady him, and Steve grips at it like a lifeline when Ilya pulls off to work at his head, lapping the salty precome like a starving man, wiggling his tongue beneath the fold of skin there, lips working it back and forth in tiny movements.

Steve is reduced to breathy exclamations as Ilya sucks sloppy kisses down his shaft before taking him in again, deeper, until he slips past his soft palate into his throat. He can only hold it for a few moments but it’s enough—Steve starts making urgent noises and he taps quickly at Ilya’s shoulder.

“Please, no, please—”

Ilya pulls off immediately, but Steve doesn’t sound frightened or repulsed, just desperate. “No?”

“I want.” Steve pants and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I want—”

“Want what, my treasure?” Ilya rubs his beard across the thin skin of Steve’s groin, resisting the urge to take him in his mouth again. He wants to know what Steve would ask. “Tell me.”

“More.”

Ilya stands, grinds their hips together slowly. ‘More’ he can do. “How do you want it?” He mouths down the side of Steve’s neck slowly, breathing him in. Steve reaches up to clutch at his arms, to anchor himself against Ilya’s bulk.

“I don’t know,” he whimpers.

Ilya nips his shoulder in reprimand. “Surely you do, sweet one. What would you like? Would you like me to fuck you?” Steve shudders, fingers digging deeper into Ilya’s flesh, making his lips curve into a smile against Steve’s skin. “I can do that. I can let you feel me; warm you from the inside out. Or—”

He doesn’t even have to finish the next sentence before Steve cuts him off, nodding frantically. “Yes, yes, that.”

Ilya growls, feral, and bends just enough to reach under Steve’s ass and brace him. “Hold on.”

Steve only has a moment before Ilya lifts him up. He isn’t a small man, but neither is Ilya, and he spends much of his time moving heavy objects or holding them for others to work on. Carrying his lover from one side of the room to the other is nothing, and it’s more than worth it to see the way Steve looks up at him from where he's lain carefully on the cool sheets of the bed, pupils blown wide and blushing from the apples of his cheeks to his chest, arms still wrapped loosely around Ilya’s neck. He doesn’t shake Steve’s grip on him, but he does slide down to plant sucking little kisses to his chest, reaching up to knead at the muscle there when Steve only moans his approval. He scrapes his teeth over one nipple, chuckling darkly when Steve writhes against the bed, his legs clamping harder around Ilya’s waist, one hand pressing to the back of his head to keep him there. He obliges for another moment, teasing at it, flicking the peaked flesh with his tongue and blowing cool air over it before covering it with the wet heat of his mouth. He pinches the other one with left hand, careful of his strength as he rolls the hardening nipple between unforgiving metal fingers. If Steve notices, he gives no sign, only squirms and begs for more. Ilya feels another surge of lust at that; switches sides to give Steve more of the same treatment before sliding down his body, pushing Steve’s pants even further down his long legs.

“Do you have lubricant? Condoms?” Ilya murmurs against the skin of his stomach. He feels the muscles there jump at the movement from his lips and can’t help another smile. Steve is so responsive, already vibrating to his every touch, to the very sound of his voice, completely and totally his.

Steve points to a nearby drawer and Ilya reaches into it immediately, coming up with a small, half-empty bottle of lube. “I don’t—” Steve’s voice wavers, “I don’t have condoms, though. But I’m clean. Monthly testing, for rangers.”

“You’ll trust me?” Ilya asks, gaze sharp. He’s clean himself, but it’s not something that should be taken for granted.

Steve’s face says that he doesn’t even understand why the question is being asked. “Always.”

Steve’s eyes go wide at the change in Ilya’s expression as he rips off his own clothes, shucking them without a second thought and tossing the lube on the bed for safekeeping before crawling up after it. Steve scrambles back, not in fear but in anticipation, drawing out the tension for as long as he can. Ilya finally reaches up and pins his shoulder to the bed with his metal hand, just enough force to make it hard to escape but not enough to bruise. There’s a moment where he thinks that he’s made a mistake, but then Steve’s eyes go dark and his lips part in a soft moan and _oh_ , Ilya likes that almost as much as Steve does. People usually react to his arm with curiosity or fascination. Occasionally revulsion or pity. This is the first time someone has been aroused by it, so really it’s Steve’s fault when Ilya trails it across his chest, up his neck, to slide two hard fingers into his mouth. Steve sucks in a sharp breath and then moans around the intrusion, sliding his tongue between the digits and sucking greedily. Ilya watches him in fascination—he can feel a surprising amount through the sensors, but not fine stimulus or texture, so he can still register the firmness of Steve’s cheeks and tongue, the rough slide of his beard against the metal palm, every sensation somehow just… _more_.

“Like this, or on your stomach?” Ilya rumbles. Steve’s answer is to spread his legs as best he can, bending one knee with a groan and another suck of his metal fingers. Ilya doesn’t second-guess him; just climbs off long enough to get the lube and shove Steve’s bent leg to the side, wide enough to show him off, to give Ilya an unobstructed view of his perfect body. Under other circumstances, he would stop to admire the picture Steve makes, spread out on the dark sheets, but not tonight. Tonight, he gets straight to business, slicking up two fingers and circling them carefully around Steve’s hole, getting him used to the sensation, waiting for him to relax a little more before pushing in. Steve huffs and stiffens for a moment before visibly forcing himself to relax. Ilya helps him, pulling his hand away from Steve’s mouth and circling his shaft instead. He pumps his fist over it slowly, so slowly, easing his fingers into Steve while the man is distracted, mesmerized by the way the tip of his cock peeks over the hard, shining metal of Ilya’s fist. He keeps looking down, eyes wide, to stare at himself, and then tilting his head back with a shuddering breath to let more of Ilya in. The third time he looks, he whines high in his throat.

“Now, Ilya, I’m ready,” he pants, “Stop teasing, I can’t—”

“You’re still tight,” Ilya warns, adding more lube and circling a third finger.

“Like it. Like the stretch. S’okay. ‘f it hurts a little, just means—” he breaks off again with one of those breathless little noises, but Ilya thinks he knows what Steve was going to say. If he can feel pain, it means he’s still alive. Still here, with him. Ilya still gives him a few perfunctory thrusts because there’s a difference between hasty and reckless, but soon enough his patience runs out and he wipes his hand clean on a corner of the sheet. Blankets himself over Steve, who eagerly makes a space for him in the cradle of his hips, legs hooking around Ilya’s waist to keep him close.

He can tell that Steve thinks Ilya will take him rough and fast. He's already bracing himself for something wild and brutal, which is why Ilya takes his time to line them up. Presses in slowly, until Steve’s body gives way for him in a way that makes them both whimper. Then in, sinking slowly into Steve’s heat, shaking with the strain of not thrusting in all at once, the way his body screams at him to. He promised himself that he would make Steve feel it; make him understand. And he will. By the time they’re flush together, sweat drips down Ilya’s face and he’s panting, breath hot and humid against the side of Steve’s neck. He can’t help how he pulls out and thrusts back in hard, quick, a small motion that pushes them almost imperceptibly up the bed and forces a punched-out noise from Steve’s lungs. He scrabbles at Ilya’s back, heart racing, as Ilya draws back again and forces himself back in slowly, powerfully, making Steve feel every inch of him. He rocks them together, grinds deep, almost breaks when Steve makes a sobbing sound under him. Ilya lifts his head with some effort and kisses Steve clumsily, one arm hooked behind his shoulder to keep him close.

Another thrust and now tears stain Steve’s face, his brows pinched in pleasure and concentration, teeth gritted like he’s in pain. Ilya knows how he feels, the mix of too much and not enough he’s forcing on them both, but Steve needs to know. He _must_ know. Ilya kisses the tears away and rocks their hips together, licks and nips at Steve’s flushed neck, one hand soothing down his side, alternately petting and reaching up to pinch at his sensitive chest.

Steve falls apart beautifully for him, burying his face against Ilya’s shoulder one moment, wordlessly begging for more the next, drinking in every kiss like it’s new. But Ilya can only keep it up for so long. He shifts, changes his angle, and suddenly Steve arches his back with a shout. He takes for the positive sign it is and focuses on driving Steve over the edge, unhooking one knee from around his waist and pushing it up towards Steve’s chest to gain the leverage to drive harder into him. They’re not even kissing anymore, mouths just open and touching so they can be close, so they can breathe each other’s air, Steve’s fingers slipping across his sweat-soaked skin, blunt nails raking red lines down Ilya’s back and making him hiss.

Ilya reaches between them with his left hand, careful with the strength he uses to grip Steve’s cock. Steve’s eyes widen a fraction more, his lips moving soundlessly. He shakes his head, but it’s not a no, not a stop; just a motion that says he doesn’t know what to do with the pleasure building up inside him. Ilya nudges at Steve’s jaw with his nose, nuzzling against his beard for a moment before setting his teeth to the tendon just behind his ear, just enough to draw Steve’s attention. Whispers, “Please,” because he wants to see it—wants to see Steve’s face when he comes, when he finally lets go and gives himself over. He offers up another kiss and rubs the tip of Steve’s cock with his thumb, small but quick circles, little jerks of his wrist, and Steve shouts his name hoarsely, muscles locking up with tension, back bowing off the sheets. He looks almost surprised by his own pleasure, rapturous with it. Ilya works him through his climax, stilling inside him for a moment while Steve’s lungs work like a bellows, a few more tears slipping down his face that Ilya leans in to kiss away.

It isn’t long before Steve opens his eyes again, gaze bright and a small smile on his lips as he brings Ilya’s face closer to his own. “Come on, Ilya,” he murmurs. “I want it. Let me feel it.”

Ilya groans, the sound coming from deep inside. He finds a new pace, urged on by Steve’s undulating body, the way he presses his ankles into the small of Ilya’s back encouragingly. He bends his head for a clumsy kiss just as his orgasm crashes through him, a starburst behind his closed eyelids, gasping breaths and helpless little jerks of his body while Steve runs his hands through his hair, letting him savor the aftershocks.

He realizes that Steve is still breathing hard and pulls away reluctantly, even when Steve tries to cling to him. He thinks guiltily of the earlier rasp in Steve’s voice; the bruise across his back; how tired he had looked. But Steve only looks up at him with fondness and banked desire, untangling his arms from around Ilya’s neck to brush his fingers across his face. He glows, Ilya thinks, and he’s so beautiful, so real, so _alive_ that it almost hurts to look at him.

“I—” Ilya can’t get the words out. They die in his throat with a strangled sound. 

Steve’s expression only softens. He nods, brushing their noses together. “Yes.”

Ilya nods like that explains anything, helping Steve lower his legs again before he draws out, murmuring sympathetically when Steve grimaces at the feeling. He looks like he’s going to get up, but Ilya gently presses him down again.

“Let me.”

Steve gives in easily, gesturing vaguely to the drawer he keeps towels in. Ilya gets Steve a glass of water while he wipes them both clean, asking Steve lie back again so he can do a thorough job. It makes him blush scarlet and turns his face away—amusing, considering that they’ve done all this together. He brushes a kiss against Steve’s knee that makes him huff a laugh, then goes to rinse and hang the towel to dry. Steve is shivering by the time Ilya slips back into the bed, some vague anxiety melting away when Steve simply moves closer to the wall, making room for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m not supposed to sleep flat,” Steve mumbles drowsily as Ilya gets himself situated.

Ilya smiles and stacks up Steve’s pillows behind his back so he can sit partially propped against the headboard. He opens his arms and lets Steve arrange himself to his liking, which turns out to be draped half over Ilya, face pillowed on the thick muscle of his chest. He adjusts his arms until he’s holding Steve securely against him. Steve hums and burrows closer, throwing a leg over him as if to anchor him there. Maybe it’s the way his breaths still rasp with every inhale, or the fine network of scars Ilya can now see run across his skin, but suddenly Steve seems young and vulnerable despite his beard and hard lines of his body. How can he feel so many things at the same time for a man he met only two months ago?

He’s softly running his fingers through Steve’s hair, listening to his gradually-deepening breaths, when Steve speaks again, voice a soft murmur against Ilya’s skin.

“Do you think it’s all right?”

He’s not sure that Steve is even fully awake, but he answers anyway. “Is what all right?”

“That I’m happy.” He sighs and presses himself a little closer. “Even though he’s gone.”

Ilya’s hand freezes in mid-air, but it makes Steve’s eyebrows furrow, so he goes back to petting him despite the way his heart squeezes in his chest, suddenly making it hard to breathe. It reminds him sharply that on some level, Steve is still in mourning for a man that looks just like him. Is he just a replacement for this ‘Bucky’? Is that what this is?

But Steve said he _is_ happy. _Now_. With _him_. Surely that means something.

Either way, as much as it hurts to think about, he knows it won’t change his own answer. His own feelings. Because he’s in too deep to back out now. Knew it when he thought his heart would stop, seeing Tracer Spider submerge into the ocean and the kaiju crawl on top of it. Knew it when he stormed down the halls, angry because he’d almost lost something he didn’t know he had.

“I think—” he has to stop to get his voice under control; to keep it from breaking. “I think that anyone who loves you will wish for your happiness,” he manages, fingers shaking as he continues to comb through Steve’s hair. “Sleep now, Styopochka. I’ll stay until morning.”

Steve doesn’t respond. His breaths are deep and even, face lax in sleep. He doesn’t feel the soft kiss Ilya presses to the crown of his head, or the hitching of his breath as the tears start to fall.  
  


* * *

  
  
He slips out of Steve’s room when his biological clock wakes him. No matter how much or how little he sleeps, no matter the amount of light offered by the sun, Ilya always wakes at the same time. He takes pains to close the door quietly—Steve needs his rest; would need it even without the extra activities of last night. Hopefully, he’ll understand that Ilya had to leave early to get to work.

He’s just turning around when the door across from him opens and Ranger Romanova steps out, right hand in a cast and her hair clumsily tied back. 

“Ilya, isn’t it?” she asks. She arches an eyebrow at him as she closes her door, and he tries hard not to blush. Other than being Steve’s temporary partner, she has no claim on him, and Ilya has nothing to be ashamed of.

He raises his chin defiantly. “Yes. And you are Ranger Romanova.”

“Natalia is fine. Walk with me?”

He falls in step with her, wondering if this is going to be a shovel talk or an interrogation.

“Steve talks about you often.” Ilya wonders if Steve actually talks about _him_ , or Bucky. “He’s very enamored, so I thought it would be nice to get to know you for myself. Draw my own conclusions separate from his ridiculously sentimental thoughts.”

An interrogation, then, but not necessarily a bad one. He relaxes marginally. “Ask. I cannot promise to answer, but I will do what I can.”

“Tell me what you think about Steve,” she says instantly. He has to close his eyes because of course she would start with the difficult questions. Just his luck.

“He’s a good man. Stubborn.” Natalia cracks a smile at that, and it gives him some confidence. “Kind.” He hesitates for a moment, but her own frankness suggests that she will value blunt truth over soft words. “Lonely. He thinks too much. And he misses his old partner.”

“He’s told you about James?”

Ilya levels a glare at her. She’s been in Steve’s head, and if she knows how he feels about Ilya then she must know how they met. She smiles guilelessly at him, making him snort. A strong, secretive woman. He rather likes it, even if it’s annoying when used against him. “I know of him. Styopa hasn’t given me too many details, but his story is not precisely obscure.”

“Pet names already?” There goes that judgmental eyebrow again. He could learn to hate that. “So. You know about James, and you know you could be his doppelganger.”

Ilya inclines his head in agreement. “I haven’t seen a picture of him, but Steve seems very certain.”

“Would you like to? See a picture of him?” she asks, like maybe she carries one around in her pocket. He highly doubts that, which means that this question is some kind of test.

He frowns, trying to put it into words. “If I encountered a picture, I would not be upset, but neither will I look for one. Knowing that I look like his dead love is one thing, but…” 

He doesn’t say how already he sometimes looks at his reflection with a sense of unease, like maybe it doesn’t quite belong to him. Has for years, now. The doctors that treated him at first told him it was dissociation; taught him things to do to bring him back to himself and told him it would get better with time. He’s already made his peace with that—with the not-knowing and the vagueness of his own image. If he looks at a picture of a dead man and sees himself— _feels_ himself looking back, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“You aren’t curious?” she presses. “To see what he sees? To prove him right or wrong?”

“No,” he says coldly. He doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone. Doesn’t have to go back to that time of his life, full of doubt and confusion. Doesn’t have to torment himself with knowing, truly _knowing_ that the person Steve sees when he looks at him is someone else entirely. Someone who— “Do you want to know what I think?” Natalia asks after a long pause. She stops walking, so he does too, and only just now realizes that she’s guided him to one of the lesser-used routes. It gives them privacy, but it also makes it difficult for him to escape. He wasn’t counting on someone so cunning—particularly not someone who is Drift-compatible with Steve, who always seems so forthright.

“I have the feeling you’re going to tell me whether I like it or not.”

Her Cheshire smile tells him he’s right. “I think you’re afraid. I think you appeared out of nowhere almost five years ago, and that’s too big a coincidence to ignore. I think you’re hiding something, and I think that I don’t like that. There’s mystery, and then there’s you. So tell me, Ilya Volkov: what is it that you’re hiding? What is it that you’re afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” he grits out. How does she know all of this? Who has she been talking to? He gets that odd, disconnected feeling that tells him some kind of pain is threatening but not there quite yet. It’s a feeling he associates with the migraines he used to get in the first few months of his recovery.

“I think you do,” she presses, backing him slowly into a wall. Pinning him like a bug on a corkboard. Flaying him open and inspecting his insides.

“I don’t…” he tries feebly.

“I could look into it,” she suggests. “This is a courtesy to you. I have these friends in the PPDC—most people call them paper-pushers, but they have access to all kinds of things, don’t they? I could find whatever it is you’re trying to hide, and then someone other than just the two of us would know.”

He swallows hard. If she looks into it, she’ll find that some—most—of his papers have been faked. He’s not a threat to the PPDC or the Jaeger Program, but he’ll be jailed all the same. It was a risk to get in in the first place, but he’d felt the pull so strongly… Was that another sign?

“I don’t… I _don’t_ know anything,” he repeats, taking a deep breath. “The accident that took my arm took my memories, too. Most of them.”

“How long ago?”

“When you say I appeared—a little over four years ago. Some fishermen found me tangled in their lines, and… Most of it was told to me. I was unconscious for two months. They had to remove the arm, and when I woke up and they questioned me, I had no answers. But I could understand them, and I speak Russian. It was the logical conclusion.”

Appeased for now, Natalia eyes him. “But now, with this possibility in front of you—as unlikely as it seems, you really could be him. Why not look into it?”

He slowly blows all the air out of his lungs. “Because,” he says helplessly. “You were right, and I’m afraid. What if I _am_ him? Then what? The person I’ve made myself, does he disappear? I don’t know how to be James Barnes, and don’t need his troubles atop my own. I don’t need people telling me what to do, how to act, what I like or don’t like based on someone who may never come back.”

“You realize that you have to tell him.”

“To what end? _I don’t remember being his Bucky._ I remember some things from before—small things, with no sense behind it; things that anyone could experience at any time in their lives. He is in none of those memories. What will that do to him?” He gestures angrily with his hands. “Even if you prove we’re the same person, what if James Barnes doesn’t come back? I was told that the longer I go without recovering the memories, the less likely that they’ll resurface. It’s been years, now. I’ve worked hard to recover. To come to terms with myself and a body that feels alien to me sometimes, and I’m happy now. Asking me to be someone else… how could I do that? I wouldn’t know where to start, and I’m afraid it will erase everything I’ve done until now.”

Natalia’s expression softens just the slightest bit. “It’s possible that he’ll know the next time we Drift. It may not be for a while with my wrist like this, but the possibility is there,” she tells him gently, “and he’ll be devastated if it comes from me and not you. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said he’s enamored. Whoever you are, you mean something to him.”

“Me, or ‘Bucky’?” he asks bitterly.

“Tell him what you’ve told me and find out.” She steps back; regards him carefully. “But which answer scares you more, I wonder?”

He brushes past her, no longer interested in talking. He doesn’t have an answer anyway.  
  


* * *

  
  
He ends up skipping breakfast, too unsettled to keep anything down. What he needs is a distraction—something honest and straightforward. Work has always been his solution, and he throws himself into it ardently.

Getting Tracer Spider back into fighting condition is a priority, even if one of her pilots is out of commission, so several mechanics are diverted to help work on her repairs. Ilya joins their number with determination: Spider has both saved and failed her rangers, and he intends to be part of rectifying the latter. Short of physically keeping Steve away from the jaeger, this is the most Ilya can do to protect him, so when he’s assigned to the replacement of the oxygen line, he bends all the skill he has to the task. The hose itself is nothing special—coated black rubber about as wide around as his wrist, ends each capped with the molded plastic that locks it into place. It still amazes him, sometimes, how such innocuous-looking things can have such devastating impact. He passes the new one up, along with the change log that tracks all crucial parts of a jaeger. The old one is passed down and he signs the receipt for it before coiling the length across his body like a bandolier to haul away.

He’s off the elevator and in the relative quiet of one of the corridors when he pauses to adjust the way the hose lays across his shoulders, and a faint pinging sound catches his attention. He looks down reflexively, just in time to see something small and dark roll away from him.

Dark? But the sound was distinctly metallic. He extends a foot and drags the thing closer to himself. It’s larger than he first thought, and with a little straining, he manages to pick it up. It’s a sharpened piece of metal, sheared off at one end but recognizable all the same. He knows that he isn’t carrying any nails, and a quick check of the walls and a glance at the ceiling tells him that neither of them take this type. Not only that, but it’s been coated partway down the shank with something black and vaguely sticky. Something that would help disguise a nail head perfectly against the dark tubing.

He ducks into the closest maintenance closet and turns on the light, slowly uncoiling his burden and telling himself that it’s nothing, just a fluke. That the overwhelming emotions of the past twenty-four hours are making him too reactive—paranoid, even. There’s a lot of line to check, but check it he does. Every inch, the way he checked the replacement. The way every technician and mechanic of every team is supposed to check during each maintenance inspection and post-attack repair. And he finds it.

A hole.

Not a small one, either. Not the type that might grow from a friction tear, or even one that could come of having a weak spot in the material. It’s too even. Too regular. And there’s something surrounding it, almost undetectable if he hadn’t been looking for it, the same black as the hose itself. The same black as the slim piece of metal now in his pocket.

He has to bring this to someone. But who? Anyone who’s worked on Tracer Spider since she arrived is a suspect. Except—no, that’s not true. She went on another mission before Natalia paired with Steve. So after that deployment, but before this one. The number is still large, but not insurmountable. He chews his bottom lip while he tries to think it through logically. None of Tracer Spider’s regular crew can be trusted. He isn’t sure how many extra hands the Shatterdome has taken on, but that’s a simple matter of checking a few logs. Should he take this to the marshal? If it’s what he thinks, this is a capital offence.

The problem is that, as Natasha so kindly pointed out, Ilya didn’t legally _exist_ until a few years ago. If he goes to the marshal with such a serious accusation, he might want to look into Ilya, and that will cause a problem of a completely different type. So. Someone important enough to go to the marshal, but low-ranking enough that they may not ask too many questions. Steve and Natalia are out—they’re too close to the situation. Same for Natalia’s usual co-pilot, Barton. One of the engineers? Who does he trust among them?

He’s still sitting on an overturned bucket and thinking when the door swings open.

“Well, _there’s_ something you don’t see every day. Tell me you’re not doing anything unsavory with that hose.”

The man standing in the doorway isn’t particularly tall compared to Ilya, but his personality more than makes up for it, even having only spoken two sentences. It’s something about the way he holds himself, or how he gives the impression of too much energy stuffed into too small a space. And something about him…

“Huh. You look sort of familiar," the man says with a small tilt of his head. "Tony Stark, engineer.” 

“Ilya Volkov. Mechanic,” he replies automatically. Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets before Ilya can disentangle himself enough to offer a handshake, which solves that problem, at least.

“Mechanic,” Tony muses. “Sure you’re not an engineer? One of mine? I can never remember all their faces.”

It finally clicks, why he thinks that Tony Stark sounded familiar. Anthony Stark: lead engineer and designer of more than half of all jaegers currently in production. He’s probably here to check on some of his latest projects, or maybe as a favor to the marshal. Either way, this could be perfect. Stark created Tracer Spider, and it’s doubtful that he’d want to do anything to destroy her. He’s also spent most of his time in the second hangar with the newer projects, frustrating the other engineers and even some of the mechanics, which provides him with a good alibi if this turns out to be sabotage.

“Anyway, you didn’t answer me, before. And I’d like an answer, because it’s pretty suspicious to be in a closet with only yourself and a hose, and I’m pretty sure that having relations with it is some kind of workplace violation.”

“I was inspecting it,” he says as soon as he can get a word in edgewise.

“Why?” Tony’s intense gaze narrows. “It’s the old one, so you only need to throw it out.” He says it lightly, but the genial teasing is gone from his voice, and he’s watching Ilya’s face a little too carefully.

“I was going to, but then…” He digs in his pocket and holds up the piece of metal. “I think this fell out of it. And I wanted to know what something like that was doing in Tracer Spider’s oxygen line.”

Tony takes the piece of the nail without even asking, inspecting it in the light. “Huh. And what did you find?”

Ilya moves to show him, but abruptly Tony waves him away. “No, not here. Too public. Or private, depending on how you look at it.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and starts walking. He stops after a few steps to look behind him. “What, aren’t you coming?”

He waits until Ilya scrambles to collect the hose to continue, forcing Ilya to run to keep up. Eventually, he realizes that they’re headed for the J-Tech wing, and Tony stops at one of the doors and waves his ID in front of it vaguely. It opens and Tony enters briskly, walking up to the first table he sees and promptly sweeping his arm across it to clear it of the papers and tools scattered across it. Ilya raises his eyebrows at that, but Tony just gestures imperiously to the now-empty space.

“Well? Whatcha got?”

Ilya unwinds the hose again, careful to keep a grip on the problem area. By the time it’s been laid out, Tony has somehow found a loupe. The engineer leans in at what has to be an uncomfortable angle, moving the hose this way and that. 

“Turn on that light, will you?” he mutters. Personally, Ilya thinks that he should have thought of that _before_ he started his inspection, but he chews on his tongue instead of snapping at the man who could have him fired on the spot, and turns on the damn light.

“Regular, almost perfectly circular,” Tony murmurs to himself. He produces the nail and compares it carefully to the puncture mark. “Some kind of residue here. You, Russian—”

“Ilya,” he corrects, irritated. Either Tony is bad with names or he simply doesn’t care. 

“Sure, right. There should be some paper somewhere, clean, and a scrapey-thing. Bring me those.”

Ilya has to count to ten slowly while he hunts down a piece of paper and a blade he assumes will work fine as a ‘scrapey-thing’ and sets both in front of Stark, just on the other side of the hose.

“Great, thanks,” Tony says absently. He’s looking at the nail fragment again, brow furrowed and mouth twisted like he’s bitten into something bitter.

After a long minute of silence, Ilya decides that Tony isn’t going to volunteer any information at all. “I don’t think the oxygen line suffered a technical failure, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony,” he corrects, “Mister Stark was my dad. How did you know to look for this?”

“I didn’t. I told you: I was going to dispose of it, and that fell out.” Ilya nods at the scrap of metal still laying out on the table.

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No. I only figured it out a few minutes before you walked in on me.”

“Good. Excellent. Don’t. Tell anyone, I mean. Keep this between us, right?” Tony rambles.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d bring it to Marshal Fury." 

Tony gives him a disbelieving little smile, but again his gaze is just a little too sharp. “And why, exactly, were you hoping that?”

Ilya has the measure of him now, he thinks. He holds his ground; refuses to get flustered or be intimidated. “Because I think it’s sabotage,” he says flatly. “And purposely endangering the life of a ranger is a capital offense.”

“Then why not bring this to Nick yourself?”

It takes a moment for Ilya to realize that ‘Nick’ is Marshal Fury. “I’m just a mechanic. I don’t know how to arrange a meeting with the marshal. And…” He chews on the words for a moment, but he doesn’t think there’s any point in withholding information from Stark. Not about this, anyway. “And if it’s sabotage, it could be someone on the crew. Someone I work with, or an overseer. It’s suspicious for me to suddenly want to talk to the marshal, especially if anyone gets brought in for questioning.”

“Hah. Smart. So you were, what, going to hide it? Just throw it out?”

Ilya loses the fight not to roll his eyes. Despite his position, Stark pokes and prods and needles like a suspicious teenager. “I was trying to think of who might be trustworthy enough to take this to the marshal before you came in.”

“How do you know you can trust me?” Tony asks quickly.

“Well it’s too late now,” Ilya points out in exasperation. Now he knows why his superiors always complain when they have to spend any amount of time with this man.

“Then how do I know I can trust _you_?”

There isn’t really an easy way to answer that, he thinks. Out loud, he says, “Because I didn’t throw it away. Because I’m speaking with you now.”

“That could be to throw me off your scent after catching you red-handed.”

Ilya stares. Then he gets mad. “If you already decided I am guilty, then why ask me at all? Steve almost _died_ because of that, and it wasn’t my doing, but if you wish to waste your time interrogating me then at least do it quickly, before he or Natalia gets into another jaeger!”

Tony looks impressed in spite of himself. “Good argument.” He drums his fingers on the heavy table between them, thoughtful. “I’ll bring it to Nick. Talk to him. I don’t think you’re wrong about it, but accusing someone of sabotage is a big deal. This has to be kept under wraps.”

Ilya nods. He'd expected as much.”Thank you.”

Tony tosses the little piece of metal up and down, scowling at it. “Don’t thank me yet—we still have to find out who did this.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	8. Chapter 8

Steve is steadily eating his way through lunch when Natasha settles on the bench beside him, keeping her back against the table so that she can lean in close. Not that they’re in much danger of being overheard—there are enough people still eating that the mess hall is a low buzz of constant conversation above the clink of silverware and rattle of trays. He’s not really sure what to expect from her. It makes sense to check up on each other, but it feels like she’s been waiting for him to show up and that’s a completely different story.

“I ran into lover-boy this morning,” she declares. She smirks when Steve accidentally inhales his soup, sliding his water to him while he sputters and coughs. “I’d say he was doing the walk of shame, but he looked pretty proud if you ask me.”

“I’m not answering that,” Steve coughs out, glaring.

“I didn’t ask anything.” Natasha bats her eyes innocently at him. “But you do look more lively than yesterday. Kind of have this spring in your step—”

“Tasha, if you want to pry into my sex life, please do it when I’m not eating.”

“I did talk to him, though. And he told me a few interesting things, after I pressed him. Not,” she holds up a hand to forestall him, “about your sex life. About himself. And I dug up some… let’s say ‘thought-provoking’ information. I thought you’d want to know sooner than later.”

He sets aside his spoon, swallowing hard. Suddenly, food seems a lot less appealing. “And?”

“Let me ask you something: Did you sleep with him because you still think he might be your old partner?”

“What?” Steve can feel the blood drain from his face. “No! Is that what he thinks? I don’t—”

He doesn’t think that. Does he? He hadn’t thought of Bucky once when he and Ilya had been together, but should he have? He knows that he loves Bucky—has loved him since he knew what love meant, loved him until the day he died, loves him still. But last night, _he hadn’t thought of him_. He’d been _happy_ , because for a moment he’d been free of the dragging grief and the persistent ache. Because he’d felt seen and loved for the first time in years, and he’d missed it. Missed being touched and held like he was something precious. Was that—was that wrong? Had he been wrong to do it? Because he hadn’t been certain, had he? Still isn’t, what the relationship between the two might be, and he’s found that he thinks of Ilya has his own person. Someone like Bucky, but not quite the same, and he doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Has he been using Ilya without knowing it?

If he hasn’t, does that mean he’s betrayed his love for Bucky?

“Whoa, Steve!” Natasha’s cool hand patting his face pulls him out of his spiral. “Breathe. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to set you off.”

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, then drags in another one with measured practice. “I don’t—” He scrubs at his face. “I don’t think so. No.”

Natasha visibly hesitates before turning to place her good hand on his back. “You sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“Isn’t it? I slept with him when I know I’m in love with someone else.”

“You can love more than once.”

“Not me. Not like Bucky.”

“If James were dead,” she says, with the air of someone picking their words carefully. “Demonstrably dead, would you still feel like that? Or do you see things going somewhere with Volkov?”

Steve closes his eyes against the disappointment. So this is her way of telling him there’s no connection. That it was just his own foolish hope this whole time, and Bucky is truly gone. “I think I’d feel like that no matter what. Maybe that’s not healthy, but it’s true. But Ilya… he’s good. A good man. If I could just be sure…” He furrows his eyebrows, trying to force out the words. “They feel so much alike, Natasha. Not just their bodies but their _souls_. I can’t say for certain if I want him because he’s like Bucky or because of his own kindnesses to me, even when we were strangers.” He glances to the side to take in Natasha’s thoughtful expression. “Not a good answer, huh?”

“It’s a truthful one,” she grants. “Sappy, but truthful.”

He laughs ruefully. “That’s something Bucky would have said, too.”

“Because it’s a fact.”

Steve pushes a few crumbs around on his plate, considering his next question. “If you talked to Ilya… does that mean he said something? About last night, or about Bucky? Does he, uh.” He chews on his lip for a moment. “Does he think what you did? That I slept with him because of who he looks like?”

“That’s something you’re going to have to ask him.” She raises an eyebrow when he scowls at her. “I’m not a relationship counselor. You’re going to have to do some of the communication on your own.”

She’s right, but he can tell she’s waiting to hear him say it so instead he goes back to shoveling food in his mouth. Even if he doesn’t want to eat it, logically he knows that he needs the calories. “How’s the wrist?”

“Fractured,” she sighs, “in three different places, and I strained my back. Speaking of which, I’m supposed to be in PT in thirty.”

Steve nods; he has a physician’s appointment in a little over an hour himself. He was warned that he has a chance of developing pneumonia as a complication of the water that had gotten into his lungs, but he’s hoping that today’s scans will show that he’s in the clear. He always feels better if he can do something active, and bed rest, after everything that’s happened, will probably drive him mad.

“By the way,” Natasha adds as she gets up. “Stark was looking for you earlier. Normally I wouldn’t play messenger, but he seemed pretty excited. That, and he wouldn’t leave until I agreed to tell you. Whatever it is that you two are playing at…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Steve promises.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Here’s what Tracer Spider picked up,” Tony tells him with no preamble. “Paper copies, as requested by the luddite.”

“It’s easier to mark patterns on paper,” Steve protests. Rangers have to be comfortable with technology to be good at their jobs, but that doesn’t mean that computers are always the best solutions.

“I assume you know what to do with it all. And hopefully that’s enough, because the receiver isn’t one of the things that made it past that last encounter. The Conn-Pod is the priority and I’m being pulled to look at it. I won’t have time to assemble another one to put into Amethyst Hawk for at least another week.”

More data is always better, but this is already a great start. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Remember—”

“You get full credit if I find anything. I remember.”

Steve retreats to his little desk in the K-Science hall to look over everything he has. The new readouts are promising, he thinks. Maybe even enough to go to Fury with. Definitely enough to justify an argument for more data collection in the normal course of kaiju monitoring. The biggest puzzle now is trying to determine what, exactly, is being communicated. And what they’re communicating with, and where. If his theory pans out, the intervals between activity should indicate a dialogue, but in this situation there was only one kaiju present. Is it possible they can communicate over a distance of nearly a quarter of the globe? He knows the frequency is far-reaching, but how far?

He’s increasingly out of his depth here. It may be time to take this to someone with actual expertise in either electromagnetism or communications. He’ll need a shortlist of people who might actually believe him instead of laughing him straight back out of the room. Tony should be able to help with that.

It takes him hours to aggregate all his notes from the past few months. He needs to be able to present something clear and concise, preferably with suggestions of how to move forward. A battle-plan. He’s recreating a chart he’s given up trying to find when he feels someone come to stand behind him. Shoving all his papers under one of the plain folders, he turns.

“Sorry, I’m almost—oh.” Ilya is there in his grease-stained coveralls looking distinctly uncomfortable and vaguely anxious. For a horrible moment, he thinks that maybe Natasha spoke to him again; said something about her conversation with Steve this afternoon. “Are you—is everything okay?”

“You missed last call,” Ilya says lowly, tapping the fingers of his right hand against his metal arm restlessly. “So I came looking. Stark said you might be here.”

Steve glances at a clock; he hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. “Sorry,” he repeats. “I didn’t… I’m not avoiding you or anything,” he blurts out. Ilya looks surprised, which means that hadn’t been his concern at all and probably that Steve’s put his foot in it. “I just got caught up in something, and I thought maybe, since you left early, that you…” Ilya continues to stare at him. “…needed space?”

“Oh, treasure.” Ilya looks like he’s not sure if he should laugh or cry. “I needed to work and you needed to sleep.” He glances around, making sure they’re alone before sliding Steve’s chair out to straddle his lap. He smells like saltwater and rubber and hot metal when Steve nuzzles close to his throat. “I just wanted to make sure you were well,” he murmurs, looping his arms around Steve’s neck.

“No signs of any complications. I’m all right. You could have waited until tonight, though,” he adds, amused.

Ilya’s answering smile is strained around the edges. “Well. I needed to know.”

“Let me put my work away and we can walk, if you’d like.”

“I would.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything about the night before, but he continues to hold Steve’s hand as they stroll, squeezing it every so often as though making sure he’s still there. It’s not quite clinginess, but more of a self-reassurance. He doesn’t know quite what to make of it—mostly, it reminds him of the times in his youth when Bucky was on guard after Steve had done something particularly stupid and pissed someone off. He used to tower over Steve and keep close tabs on him, eyeing corridors and grumbling under his breath. But his conversation with Natasha is still fresh on his mind, and he doesn’t want to make the comparison. Ilya has his own reasons, surely, for seeming as on-edge as he does.

“You’re not going to be in the field for a while, yes?” Ilya asks cautiously. They’re stopped outside of Steve’s door, leaning against it in a much more relaxed mirror of the night before. Steve’s thoughts, which had been wandering toward whether or not inviting Ilya in would be a good idea, come to a screeching halt.

“Only until I’m cleared. If there aren’t any complications, I’d be available in less than two weeks.”

“But Natalia cannot pilot with her broken hand.”

“Vahsel can’t keep going with only one jaeger—last time proved it more than ever.”

“We did it for months before you arrived!”

Steve’s eyes go wide. He feels like he’s been slapped. “I thought I made it clear yesterday, Ilya. I’m a ranger. This is my job. It’s my _duty_. You can’t ask me to step away from it.”

Ilya clenches his jaw so hard that Steve can see the muscles there jump; can almost hear the way his teeth grind together. “Stubborn,” he snaps. “You make it very difficult on those who care for you, Styopochka. I’m only asking you to take care of yourself. To be careful.”

“Careful isn’t in the job description,” he counters stiffly. “And I don’t want to fight.”

He watches as Ilya fights to rein in his temper. But for a moment, just one second, the look in his eyes isn’t anger, but fear. “I know. You are…” he gropes for words. “Impossible. But brave.” He sighs, gripping Steve’s shirt and bending to press his face into the fabric. “It is hard to keep you safe when you want to run into danger with your eyes closed.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. When he keeps his silence, Ilya just sighs and mutters something in Russian. “Then I will be cautious for both of us.” He pulls Steve into a soft kiss, metal hand cool on the side of his neck. “Good night, Styopochka.”

“Good night, Ilya.”  
  


* * *

  
  
He wakes up with a jolt on the fourth day of his medial leave, stumbling upright only to dissolve into a coughing fit. There have been no signs of pneumonia yet, but that hasn’t stopped his lungs from protesting sudden movements or inhaling too quickly. It takes him five seconds to realize that what woke him wasn’t a kaiju alarm—not that he’d be able to do much if it had been—but someone knocking on his door. He jerks it open before the person can wind up for another round.

Natasha stands there looking much too put-together at—Steve squints at his clock—0400 hours. Even her hair is neatly done in a plait, although how she’s managed with only one hand he has no idea.

“Fury wants us in the war room,” she informs him. “Now.”

He doesn’t even question it. Just retreats long enough to grab actual pants and a jacket before following her out. “Do we know why?”

“No. Carter buzzed me a few minutes ago and politely requested our presence at our soonest possible convenience.” She stifles a yawn. “So I figured it’s important.”

She leads them around the long way, so it takes almost ten minutes to arrive at the ‘war room,’ which is more or less a glorified conference room. He doesn’t know how many summons have been issued, but Fury, Carter, Stark, Clint, and Bruce are already there. Sitting in the middle of the table is a long rubber tube, the ends of which dangle and drag on the floor haphazardly. Judging by the way Sharon locks the door behind them, they’re the last ones to arrive.

“All right, Stark: we’re all here. This better be damn good,” Fury says evenly.

“Tracer Spider’s oxygen line was deliberately tampered with,” is the prompt reply.

There’s a long beat of silence while everyone stares at the engineer. He remains impassive, waiting them out, and that’s when Steve, at least, realizes that he’s perfectly serious.

“You have proof of this?” Fury asks intently.

Tony scoffs and gestures to the table. “Why do you think I made Brucie help me haul this all the way here? Fun? There are multiple punctures in the line, too well-formed to be incidental tears. One had a nail still in it.” He flings a small plastic bag on the table. Everyone leans in to look at its contents—most of a nail, as he’d said, the head missing but recognizable nonetheless.

“Isn’t the rubber self-healing?” Clint asks, picking up the bag to inspect it. His normally casual body language is pulled tight; angry.

“That only goes so far, and it won’t work at all if something’s still lodged in there keeping the sides apart. Well, it will to a certain point, but those are assuming normal atmospheric conditions. Being underwater complicates things.”

Sharon frowns. “Was Amethyst Hawk—”

“No,” Tony says quickly. “I checked her myself. She’s fine.”

“Which means that this was targeted,” Natasha murmurs. She’s leaning in to examine the rubber hose, checking the places Tony has marked. “We were fine until the last encounter, so this is recent.”

“After Steve became your partner,” Clint adds grimly. He’s obviously trying not to glare at the blond, but even if he did Steve wouldn’t blame him. Clint and Natasha have been partners for years—all rangers sign up for a certain amount of danger, but threats from within aren’t one of them.

“It could be either of them. Someone could have waited as a misdirection, or simply chosen now to make a move,” Bruce soothes. “It will be hard to determine if there’s even a specific target without knowing the motivation behind it.”

“And for that, we need a suspect,” Fury sighs.

Steve and Tony exchange a long glance. “I might have an idea about that, sir,” Steve says.

Everyone but Tony turns to regard him with cautious interest. Fury’s eyebrows go up in a way that says he’s amused while his expression says he’s anything but. “Illuminate me, Rogers.”

“I’ve been doing some research on extremely low electromagnetic frequencies. There are some patterns that suggest…” He glances at Tony, who nods encouragingly. “Communication. Below our normal channel threshold.”

Bruce startles. “You think someone is communicating with our facility without alerting us?”

He’d hoped to have his materials with him before it came to this, but it looks like his hand is being forced. “Not people.” He takes a carefully deep breath. “I think it’s how kaiju talk to each other. Some of them, anyway. There’s an uptick of activity just before the Breach first opens and it doesn’t dissipate until the threat has been terminated,” he explains quickly, trying to head off the first few disbelieving questions. “But everything I found was so far at the bottom of the readouts in the archives that I couldn’t be sure. They cut off too high to do more than guess. So I—”

“You should find records for data as low as one hundred-fifty hertz,” Bruce interrupts.

“I did, in some of the older archives, but the more recent ones stop around thirty to fifty,” Steve replies, momentarily thrown. “So I asked Tony to make and install a receiver.”

“In our jaeger?” Clint asks, sounding mildly outraged.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Tony snaps, “It wasn’t dangerous.”

“Obviously it was, or someone wouldn’t have felt the need to try to kill two pilots!”

Natasha puts out a hand to calm her partner. Clint subsides reluctantly.

“Go back to your communication theory.” Bruce leans in, eyes bright. He looks like a kid who just realized that Christmas came early. “There have been past attempts at manmade transmission on low-frequency levels—they would be useful for submarines because of the distance they can cover—but the expense and size of the antennae alone… If kaiju are communicating on the frequency, it means that not only do they have some kind of natural biological receptors, but a way to ‘speak’ and instinctively translate the subtle nuances.” He tugs at his hair excitedly.

Fury crosses his arms across his chest, looking unimpressed. “In English, Doctor Banner.”

“It’s possible that kaiju can ‘hear’ each other on a level that typical humans and even standard instruments can’t hear. Think of it effectively as telepathy: we can’t hear it but _they_ can, and we can’t interfere in it, either. Not yet.”

Fury’s expression does something complicated at the mention of telepathy.

Tony pumps a fist at the other end of the table and points at Steve. “I _told_ you their faces would be priceless!” he crows.

“Where’s the data now?” Bruce asks eagerly. “No offense, Steve, but verification—”

“Let’s not forget that out best working theory is that someone was willing to kill for this information,” Clint says sharply.

“Or to keep it quiet,” adds Sharon.

“Whoever presented a case like this first would definitely secure a name for themselves in the scientific community.” Bruce fidgets with his glasses, cleaning them compulsively. “You wouldn’t think it, but researchers can be very cutthroat. Not to mention the potential to sell the information back to the PPDC if it could be disguised as a private venture… people have killed for less.”

“Who else knows about your theory?” Fury focuses on Steve again, leaning in to brace himself on the table. “Aside from Stark, here, who else did you show?”

Steve shakes his head. “No one. A few others in K-Science knew I was looking at old Breach readouts, but I never said why. It didn’t make sense to say anything without a better-supported case. And I secure everything before I—”

But that’s not right, is it? Or rather, it is, but how secure is it really? He hadn’t thought much of misplacing a few papers here and there—he’s accumulated a lot, over time, and even the most organized people occasionally lose things. Scraps of paper, scribbled notes… But put in this new context, every missing piece is more motivation. A possible reason for sabotage. And he’d dragged Natasha into it.

“Rogers?” Fury prompts.

Steve swallows hard. “Some notes have gone missing. The idea seemed so far-fetched, I was more worried about…” About his mental evaluations if he brought it up. “I’ll inventory what I have against what I remember collecting and submit everything as soon as it’s ready.”

“You can use my lab,” Bruce offers. “I’d like to start in on what you have.”

“Add a list of people who might have had access to your notes,” Fury says. “We still to make a list of potential saboteurs. I don’t like not knowing who I have at my back. Stark, what about the mechanic who brought this to you? A suspect?”

“He was really offended when I implied he could be,” Tony smirks. “Of course, he could be a really good liar. Ilya Volkov; I looked him up.”

Steve almost chokes on his tongue. “Ilya?”

“You know him?”

“Yes. He’s…” He’s been protective, the last few days. Steve thought it was because he’d finally understood that a ranger’s job is dangerous, but maybe that isn’t fair to him. Ilya is part of the PPDC too, and even if he isn’t in the field the way Steve is, he’s a mechanic. He sees the kind of damage jaegers take, and doubtless he’s seen rangers injured before. He hadn’t asked Steve to stop being a ranger, either. He’d asked how long he’d be off the field, and been upset when it seemed he’d return much sooner than anticipated. Two weeks isn’t nearly long enough to catch a traitor, not without more leads. Is this why Ilya has been so twitchy?

“He’s…?” Tony prompts.

“I trust him.”

“Fine. Bring everything you have to Doctor Banner’s lab. Banner, I expect you to keep everything locked down and report to me with any findings ASAP. We’re going to flush out this asshole and drag him in front of the board for treason.” Fury meets everyone’s eyes. “Dismissed.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Bruce is fascinated with what Steve brings him. Every new piece has him fluttering with excitement, drawing more calculations and making his own notes. Steve explains the patterns he’s found, turns over everything he has, and Banner runs away with the information, babbling about transmissions and electromagnetic impulses in relation to quantum fluctuations. From what he understands, a lot of what he assumed is actually wrong, but the _basis_ of his assumptions, the patterns, are ‘the key to understanding everything’ as Bruce mutters more than once.

He feels useless after he hands everything over. It takes two days for him to finish cataloging his notes and answer all of Bruce’s questions, and when he’s done, he realizes that it’s all out of his hands. At first, he thinks that maybe he can help Fury eliminate suspects, but when he tries to get in contact with him he finds out that the marshal has been called away elsewhere. Sharon stays in Vahsel to continue working, but she just gives him an apologetic look and says that ‘orders are orders.’ And he can’t even tell Ilya that he knows now why the other man is so concerned—he’s not sure what he’s allowed to say and to whom, and as far as he knows Ilya hasn’t been brought into the marshal’s confidence.

It hurts to have to keep something from him. Now that he’s looking for it, he can see the strain around Ilya’s eyes when they pass Tracer Spider resting in her bay or when Steve has to pause on one of their walks for a coughing fit. He wants to say that he knows, and that they’re taking steps to find whoever did it. He wants to say that he’s sorry for reacting the way he did, and he understands why he’s worried, and reassure him that there are others watching his back. But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he holds Ilya’s hand just a little tighter; lets his touches linger just a little longer; kisses him goodnight as sweetly as he knows how.

And it’s nice, amidst everything else, to have this comfort. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed simple human touch—hadn’t even realized that he’d been avoiding it until he had it again. It’s like his skin ached, stretched too far over his body, but he didn’t notice until the ache was gone. He seeks out the simple intimacy and Ilya seems happy to give it. When they sit on out-of-the-way stairwells to talk, Ilya leans their heads together casually, thighs pressing close together. He finger-combs Steve’s hair when he teases him about non-regulation length, and then sputters indignantly when Steve reaches up to tug at Ilya’s even longer hair in response. He traces cool metal fingers up and down the back of Steve’s neck when they watch old movies in one of the smaller rec rooms after hours, and loops a warm arm around his waist, pushing his shirt up enough to splay a hand across his stomach. It doesn’t lead to anything overtly sexual and Steve…

...Well, he likes it. It’s better, in some ways: intimate, but casual in a way that lets him know Ilya thinks of him; wants to be close to him. They even end up in Steve’s room again, but all that happens that evening is Ilya pulling him in tight, back to chest, and flopping over on his bed so he’s half-squishing him. It should be oppressive and Steve pretends to complain about the weight, but Ilya just sticks his cold nose at the base of Steve’s skull and licks, then grins at the squeak that earns him and declares that the blond likes it.

“I don’t,” Steve protests, turning his face to the side so he can breathe properly. He has to blow on his bangs away from his face so Ilya can see his accompanying glare—maybe he _has_ let it get a little long. “I only put up with it because I like you.”

“I like you too, my treasure,” he murmurs. “Very much. And tomorrow…” He wiggles until they can lie side by side, tangling his fingers with Steve’s. “I have something to show you. Your cadets are all but graduated, I’ve heard, so I thought you’d like to see what they will be piloting before it is revealed.”

Steve isn’t as much of an enthusiast as he’d been in his youth, but Ilya is obviously excited to share this with him. “They just need to find Drift compatibility, but the marshal needs to be present for that. I get to be one of their instructors for a few more days, and I would _love_ to hold it over their heads that I’ve seen their jaeger and they haven’t.”

It feels like a secret spy mission, sneaking into the second hangar with Ilya dressed in one of the man’s spare suits. He suspects that the brunet planned it that way, to distract Steve from his restlessness and impatience to be cleared for duty. It works—he hasn’t done something that _feels_ this illicit in years. He’s pretty sure he’s having fun for once, which is probably why he should have known it wouldn’t last.

The jaeger is resting within the last bay, skeletal remains of scaffolding around its head. There aren’t that many lights on, but there’s enough of a glow that its outline is completely unmistakable:

Guardian Aegis.

It’s impossible. She’d been declared a total loss even after he’d brought her back. Her Conn-Pod was irreparable, her power core so damaged that they actually thought it would explode before he reached the shore. It’s considered a miracle that it depowered instead of melting down. And her entire left side, the side Bucky had been on, was lost. Her entire shoulder, just like—just like Ilya’s actually, it had been gone. And even more: her chest, her helm, the shield that bore her name had been in ruins. He can feel the ugly way the circuitry suit had punished him, the relay of impulses misfiring with so many of Aegis’ broken. His hand goes to his side where the worst of the electrical scarring is, following the fine gold lines that lay so close to his skin.

She shouldn’t be standing here. _He_ shouldn’t be standing here. Neither of them should be here. It’s wrong, they died out there, you can’t just bring someone back from the dead like that.

Something drops onto his hand and he looks down. Rain. It’s raining? Right, it had been raining. Storming. Lightning lashing the sky, shock-white whips of electricity illuminating what their floodlights couldn’t. The glare on the water… He puts a hand up to his eyes, trying to block the light. See, he needs to see properly, but something is clinging to his hand. Malfunction of the controls? He doesn’t have time for that because Bucky—

Bucky—

Isn’t in his mind. He reaches for it, the Drift, and finds nothing. Empty space where his partner should be, no memories, no feelings, no thoughts, nothing. And then he remembers the rend of metal, right, shorn off, Guardian Aegis here but with an arm, why does she have an arm, if it’s there, if she’s safe, then _what the hell happened to Bucky?_

He comes to behind a stack of crates, huddle against a crinkling plastic tarp, with Bucky’s hands on his arms and his husky voice begging him to calm down. The lights are dimmer back here and he can’t see the jaeger anymore, but Bucky is telling him to breathe, that he’s safe, that he’s in Vashel Shatterdome and his name is Steven Grant Rogers—

He shudders all over and a wounded noise rips from his throat as he surges into the brunet’s waiting arms.

“Oh God, Buck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The tears burn like fire down his cheeks and soak into his beard and he must be a mess like this, hysterical sobbing hiccuping through his chest. “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster, I’m sorry, please, _please_!”

Those strong arms wrestle him closer, tuck his head against a bristly chin and stroke his back. They collapse against their temporary hiding place and Steve hears someone singing. It’s a patient, calm song, the tune slightly off but still obviously a lullaby, but it’s not in a language that he knows. Bucky hated to sing. He was too shy to do it if he thought anyone else would be listening, but now…

“Ilya,” he croaks. He feels the brush of soft lips across the top of his head, Ilya’s favorite spot to kiss when he can reach it, and the tears break anew.

“Yes, my treasure,” the brunet murmurs. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew about her. No one said—” His chest rises and falls as he breathes deep. “It’s all right, now, Styopochka. You’re safe.

How can he be so calm, still call him pet names when Steve just did the one thing he promised himself not to, and called him ‘Bucky’? He feels sick, and this time he cries for Ilya, his mechanic whose patience and gentle kindness Steve is starting to realize means a love he can’t help. Love that Steve doesn’t know how to take, how much, how delicately, if he’s damaged it or not while he’s lost in his brain.

“Shh, shh.” Ilya pulls him even closer. “You are a good man, Steve. But even good men cannot predict what trauma will do to them. I should have prepared you more for seeing her, given you a chance to guard yourself. I’m sorry, dear one, I am.”

Steve shakes his head—Ilya has nothing to be sorry for. It takes him a good ten minutes to get himself back under control, and Ilya waits with him. He feels foolish, after, like he’s overreacted wildly, but other than straightening up the corner they were in and offering Steve a mostly-clean cloth for his face, Ilya says nothing.

“I’d, um.” Steve clears his throat. He’s never liked to run from his troubles if he can help it. “I’d like to see more of her. If that’s okay?” Now that he’s looking closer, there are very definite differences. Her silhouette is largely the same, beautiful but sturdy lines and the whimsical flourishes where the Conn-Pod attaches. But the massive bulk of her right arm, where the Aegis used to rest, is considerably slimmed down, and instead triangular bucklers cover the tops of each arm.

“The core has been upgraded,” Ilya tells him quietly. He gestures and leads the way to a lift that will take them higher, closer to her main body. “And she was retrofitted to take one of the newer Conn-Pods. That was one of the teams I was on,” he adds with quiet pride. “Her weapons systems have had an overhaul. When she was first built, there had been experimentation with jaegers whose primary task was defense.”

“I remember,” Steve husks. He and Bucky had volunteered because it was something new and exciting. A challenge. They were accepted because they were able to defeat kaiju in simulations with even minimal offensive capabilities.

“That line of thinking was dropped not long after the Aegis fell.”

Steve likes how he doesn’t flinch away from saying it. He reaches out and takes Ilya’s metal hand in his. “So, new weapon systems.”

“Her new shields have high offensive capability. Superheated claws will cauterize wounds as they’re made, and it has high-pressure air injector that, if used correctly, can introduce an embolism into the kaiju’s system. There are anti-kaiju ballistics and ground spikes for extra traction, as well as added hydraulics to increase the strength of her blows.”

Steve glances at Ilya. His eyes glow with pride when he looks up at the jaeger, and Steve feels even more guilty about his earlier episode. He suspects, though, that if he tries to apologize to Ilya about it, the other man will only reassure him or wave it off. So he just says, “You seem very fond of her.”

“She’s been my assigned project for the last two years. Almost half the wiring in her Conn-Pod is my work, and I was part of the group that finalized several of her weapons upgrades.”

Steve bites his tongue on the comment he wants to make. The one that suggests Ilya’s work with her might not just be a coincidence. But he doubts that either of them truly believe in fate.

“She’s beautiful.”

Ilya nods, like he accepting the compliment on behalf of someone else. On the jaeger’s behalf, maybe. “Sixty percent of Guardian Aegis was used for this build, so she bears her namesake.”

“What do you call her?”

Ilya tugs Steve back down the walkway, until the jaeger’s name and insignia can come into view. She’s got Aegis’ wings and star, the latter painted in red and the wings outlined in silver instead of blue.

“Guardian Fang.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-healing materials are a real thing (and they're super-cool). You commonly see them in self-healing mats usually made as crafting/cutting surfaces, or in tires that are designed to last longer if accidentally punctured by glass or nails. Also called “smart rubber,” there’s a whole scientific thing behind it that boils down to neat stuff about covalent bonds re-binding torn edges. [Here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smart_rubber) are some [links](https://materialdistrict.com/article/self-healing-rubber-flat-tires/) to get you started!
> 
> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	9. Chapter 9

Fury’s absence makes Steve antsy. It makes all the rangers antsy, actually, because without him Lang and Kaplan can’t be tested for Drift compatibility. With Natasha’s wrist the way it is, that means that Vahsel Shatterdome is once again down to one set of pilots. 

It’s thought that the enormous amount of energy needed to open a Breach inhibits its potential for rapid or frequent openings. Activity is never predictable, but there are trends, and it’s rare that one opens more than once every four to five weeks. Which isn’t to say that _others_ won’t open, but the same Breach opening within two weeks of its last activity has only been recorded a handful of times, most of which are from the first attempt to close the original one located in the Marianas Trench.

So of course it’s too much to ask that the Antarctic Breach remain dormant until Fury returns or Natasha’s wrist heals enough to grip the manual controls.

Steve has just settled down to his midday meal when the kaiju alarms go off. Even if he’s technically cleared for duty, there’s no way he can pilot with Natasha out of commission. It takes him a moment of thought, a pause as he watches Kate and Clint shoot up from seats and abandon their trays, and then he decides to report to mission control. He stops at Natasha’s table on the way, quirking an eyebrow at her, and she sighs like she’s doing him a huge favor by packing up and following him even though they both know she’d go crazy if she had to wait and do nothing.

No one questions two rangers’ presence in the command center—everyone is too busy setting up, checking systems comms, Breach fluctuations, projections of where to intercept with the jaeger.

“They’re heading towards the Falklands,” Sharon says, barely looking up from where she hovers just behind Officer Hill. “Took off fast. Two Cat-2s, and we don’t want to risk letting one slip past.”

Steve nods and leans in to look at one of the trajectory maps, dots and lines blinking as they update with the latest calculations.

“It’s going to be a tight window,” Officer Sitwell says grimly. “Ushuaia will get there first, but they’re estimating a three-mile engagement.” He has one eye on his cameras and a communications headpiece on, tapping busily away at a keyboard. “They want to know our ETA.”

“Fifteen; wind’s against us,” Hill responds quickly. “Do they have visuals yet?”

“Waiting for the uplink.”

Natasha goes to the screen showing the real-time readouts of Amethyst Hawk, eyes sharp as she checks and double-checks numbers. Steve knows that she’s trying to find any warning signs of a possible man-made malfunction, but he isn’t sure what she thinks she can do even if she spots one. They can’t afford to pull Amethyst Hawk once she’s in the air, especially with no replacements forthcoming. The next closest Shatterdome is in Chile, and any assistance from them would only arrive in time to do damage control after landfall.

The video links aren’t the clearest, but they’re good enough. Steve can see two foreign bodies pushing under the surface of the water, sleek and dark. Ushuaia’s jaeger, Lady Thunder, drops into the ocean, soundless on their screen. She’s flashy, fists like hammers and a nitro-freeze breastplate if anything gets too close, and from the way she pounds her fists together in a taunt, Steve is sure the noise she makes must live up to her name. They’re patched in to listen to the communications line, but not given direct speaking access.

 _:Lady Thunder, ready to go,:_ a bold female voice says. She sounds excited; pumped. _:Let’s kick some kaiju ass. Right, Thor?:_

There’s a wordless roar of agreement from ‘Thor’ and the jaeger starts to move on the screen, scanning for the first of its opponents.

 _:Lady Thunder, you are to wait for Vahsel backup to fully engage. Keep them as close to your mile as you can until they arrive.:_ Ushuaia’s LOCCENT officer commands. 

“ETA seven minutes,” Hill reports. On the screen, the first of the two kaiju erupts from the water, deceptively graceful as it breaks from the top of a wave almost straight into the air. It’s got a head like a boomerang, skin-covered horns winging back from its face, and a long, slick-looking body. It twists in midair and uses its tail to change direction, crashing down at an angle that hits Lady Thunder’s crossed arms and rocks her back on her heels. It’s fast, almost too fast to be real, and Steve can pinpoint the moment the pilots realize they’re in actual danger of one slipping past.

Six minutes until Amethyst Hawk can intercept. In that amount of time, one of the kaiju could speed by and make landfall.

“Drop her early,” Steve tells Hill. “Get her on the shelf and drop her. They need a distraction.”

“One of them could push her off,” Natasha snaps from behind him. “If they’re too close to the edge, they’ll go under.”

“They need distance for firearms anyway.” He reaches over Hill and grabs the mic. “Clint, Kate, we’re going to drop you early. Discharge your first anti-armor round close to Lady Thunder. You need to draw at least one kaiju’s attention to keep them away from shore.”

Maria takes her mic back with a glare in Steve’s direction, but he’s still tactical advisor and Fury isn’t there to yell at him. She leans in to confirm, “Early drop. ETA two minutes. Stay safe, Hawk.”

 _:Roger, Rogers!:_ Clint copies cheerfully, and in the background they can hear Kate giggle nervously. Steve wants to tell Kate to take this seriously, but in his experience Clint is the type to crack jokes when danger comes at him and right now she’s in his head.

Lady Thunder isn’t built for quick combat. She’s having trouble keeping up, taking fast hits from the kaiju still submerged in the water batting her around. None of them are hard enough to topple her, but from what Steve can hear, the two pilots are getting frustrated at not being able to land anything but glancing blows. Something darts fast in the water, spikes spraying up and forcing her to dodge, and then it’s rocketing past. The jaeger goes after it quickly, lunging for a grip on it—body, tail, it doesn’t matter so long as she can slow it down.

And then Amethyst Hawk drops. She’s barely steadied when Clint and Kate fire a round into the water, churning it up wildly in a visible track that skims so close to the other jaeger that its pilots swear in at least three different languages between them. But it works. The water froths as the kaiju makes a sharp turn and speeds towards its new opponent.

“They need to—”

 _:Moving to engage,:_ Kate says over the comms and they can see Hawk lean into the motion, slogging through the water as fast as it can, chest plates shifting as it readies a second volley. The other kaiju turns a large circle and arrows in, both coming in for a pincer attack on Amethyst Hawk while Lady Thunder angles to cut one off, jaeger and kaiju in a race against each other to see who can get into position first.

Everything flashes red.

At first, Steve thinks that something has happened to their team. That the video delay was longer than they thought and Hawk has already taken heavy—even catastrophic—damage. But then the blare of the alarm catches up to him and a handful of screens light up, an automated voice droning, “Breach activity detected.”

Hill looks like she wants to stand up and turn, but she’s still got one jaeger in the field that needs her attention. No Shatterdome is equipped to deal with kaiju attacks on two drastically different fronts—they’ll have to cede all ops of the current engagement to Ushuaia. But the readouts for Amethyst Hawk are all here and that isn’t something that can be handed over, Steve thinks frantically. He can see the same thoughts race through Officer Carter’s brain as the rear bank of computers lights up.

Someone has turned off the alarm, and Hill has routed all comm sounds to her headset. It feels like the room is holding their breath, waiting for what will happen next.

“Kaiju emergence confirmed,” a K-watch officer says in tight tones. “Waiting for full readout.”

“Activity is spiking—it’s going to be big,” another one reports. And then, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

“Category Three, new designation: Kani, confirmed on radar.”

“Southwest-bound at seventy-eight knots and rising.”

Steve exchanges a looks with Natasha and Sharon. It’s headed here, and their only jaeger is already in the field hundreds of miles away. They need to do something.

“Send out the drones—I want visual ASAP,” Sharon barks. Hill nods to her, letting her take over home base while she continues to handle Amethyst Hawk from afar. Sharon fiddles with some controls until her voice crackles over the Shatterdome’s PA system.

“Attention all personnel: There is a kaiju inbound for the Shatterdome, landfall expected in—” she glances to the side and someone points out a number, “—thirty-five minutes. Report to your battle stations in an orderly fashion and receive your assignment from the nearest supervisor.” She closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. In, and out. “I know that this is highly unusual, but we _are_ trained for this. The goal is to minimize casualties while delaying until reinforcements can arrive. Godspeed.”

The next-closest Shatterdome aside from Ushuaia is in Caldera, Chile. Any help coming from them will be too late, no matter how one cuts it.

Sharon turns to the closest communications officer. “Contact Caldera and Piura; let them know our situation. I need to speak with Marshal Fury. Rogers, Romanova, report to heavy arti—”

“Carter!” The door to the control room swings open and Tony tears into the room, looking around and ignoring the harassed personnel trying to keep him back. His eyes land on Sharon. “There you are. Tracer Spider is—”

“Out of commission with no pilots,” Sharon interrupts, “And you’re not supposed to be here, Stark.”

“No, I’m supposed to be down there fixing her up, see, because in forty minutes I can alter her weapons systems to release manually instead of requiring the Drift. With her long-range capabilities we can add more weapons to our arsenal and—”

“—And in case you weren’t listening, the kaiju will make landfall in only thirty of those minutes. Not to mention the waste of manpower while something experimental—”

“—not a waste! I _know_ —”

Steve shrinks back into the shadows the best he knows how. He’s not normally a subtle kind of person, but he only needs to make it out of the door without drawing too much attention. As soon as he’s in the hallway, he strides down the hall, looking straight ahead projecting as much confidence as he can. No one ever questions a ranger moving with purpose, particularly inside a Shatterdome; they don’t even stop to consider that, without a jaeger, he’s barely more useful than the next well-trained soldier.

He’s already in the Drivesuit Room and yanking on a circuitry suit when someone bursts in. Steve spares a glance—no one should be in here because with no rangers to deploy, it’s not a ground battle station.

“I knew it.” Ilya stalks up to him and grabs him by the arm, stopping him from pulling on the upper half of the suit. “What do you think you’re going to do? Tracer Spider isn’t ready for deployment yet.” He looks around belligerently. “And where is Romanova? She is even _less_ ready than her jaeger to be in the field!”

“She can’t pilot with a broken wrist—”

“Exactly!”

“—which is why I left her in the control room.”

Ilya looks mad enough to spit nails. “Even more stupid! What do you think you’re going to do with this?” He gestures angrily at the suit Steve continues to pull on, straining to close the zipper on the back of it by himself. He manages—barely.

“I’ve piloted a jaeger alone before,” Steve tells him calmly, reaching for the first piece of armor.

“No.”

“Actually, I have. For several hours.”

“That isn’t what I mean. I mean _no_ , Styopa.” He reaches out to stop him again and Steve backs further away, buckling on his arm guards resolutely. “Do you _want_ to die?!”

“No, but I can’t just let everyone on this island die either.”

“…All right.” Ilya opens another locker and starts yanking out items. “Then I will help you.”

Steve’s head shoots up, alarm jolting through him. “What?”

“I will help you,” Ilya repeats slowly, like Steve is a child who doesn’t quite understand.

“You can’t! You’re not a ranger; you don’t have any idea how to pilot a jaeger.”

“No, but I can share the neural load.”

“You…” Steve sputters, then decides that expedience will help more. If he can finish suiting up and leave before Ilya can, there’s not much he can do to stop him. The breastplate is difficult to do alone, but not impossible. And it’s needed for—

“Ah, you’ve realized that you can’t leave without this?” Ilya smirks, one hand over the case that holds the spinal clamps. “I will help you put this on as soon as we are inside the jaeger. Unless you think you can still pilot without it?”

It’s a vital piece of the drivesuit and Ilya knows it. The spinal clamp is one of the major impulse conductors connecting Steve to the jaeger. He might have been able to do without the majority of his armor and maybe even parts of the circuitry suit, but leaving off the spinal clamp or helmet is out of the question. He works his jaw furiously, grinding his teeth back and forth in frustration. But time is ticking down until the kaiju arrives, and he needs to be as far from shore as possible before that happens.

“Fine, but you’re wearing the full suit,” he snarls, grabbing the first item to come to hand off the floor. Ilya’s eyes flash triumphantly as he turns to let Steve finish zipping him up. He’s not gentle about getting Ilya’s armor on, tugging and moving him around roughly, but he does make sure it all fits as well as it can. Most armor is custom-made for an individual pilot, to maximize movement and prevent chafing and Ilya has grabbed one of Steve’s spares. It’s ill-fitting as a result, despite their similarities in size, and the left arm guard refuses to latch properly no matter what Steve does.

“Leave it off,” Ilya tells him. “We don’t have time, and it’s metal anyway. Not much more to guard there.” He knocks on it pointedly. “Your turn.”

Steve lets Ilya tighten the straps to the rest of his armor, and then they reach for a helmet apiece. Ilya scoops up two shining spinal clamps before they leave, giving Steve a pointed look. Not that he needs to—Steve knows full well that he’s going to follow through on his threat. His actual concern is that Ilya will follow him all the way to the jaeger and then refuse to hand it over. He starts making plans on how he might have to take him down, how to do it as gently as possible, how he’ll manage to don that final piece without a second person. But that’s all for later. That’s at least five steps in the future. He needs to get to the jaeger first.

Snatching up a radio, he beckons to Ilya and double-times it out of the room. Again, no one looks twice at them as lope through the halls at a ground-eating pace. Ilya starts to turn for the main bay, but Steve shakes his head. As Ilya mentioned before, Tracer Spider isn’t up to another deployment yet. She might still have another sabotage—going over an entire jaeger is a meticulous process, especially when trying to do it covertly. Not to mention that if Tony wins his argument, techs will be swarming it at any minute. No, there’s somewhere else that he needs to be.

“This is Rogers. LOCCENT, do you copy?”

There’s a long pause, and then, “Rogers, where the hell are you?”

“Natasha, I need you to get someone to warm up Guardian Fang.”

“Guardian… Steve, you can’t. You physically cannot. Who the hell are you going to Drift with?”

Ilya shoots him a vindicated look.

“Doesn’t matter. Just warm her up.”

“Where are you?” she demands again. “I’m going to meet you.”

“Tasha, if you don’t warm her up now I’ll just lose time doing it manually.” He opens the door that leads outside, dodging the people still hurrying with supplies and, in some cases, the oversized shells used in the ground-based turrets.

There’s a pregnant pause, and then Natasha curses. “Fine.” Her voice is muffled. Steve assumes she’s turned away to get someone’s attention. “I need someone to warm up the jaeger in Hangar 2. Yes, I’m—”

Steve drops the radio as it lets out a high-pitched screech, wincing as it drags on until he realizes that it’s not just coming from his radio, but the entire PA system.

_“Code Hydra. Repeat, Code Hy—”_

That isn’t Sharon’s voice, or Hill’s. And that isn’t the sound of someone dropping the mic—it’s the deafening report of a gun just before the voice is silenced. Steve and Ilya stare at each other for a horrified moment before Steve breaks and turns to go back to mission control. Ilya grabs his arm as chaos erupts around them, people suddenly turning on each other. An armed guard fires several shots into the air and some personnel hit the ground while still others draw more weapons, one of them against the rogue guard.

“What the hell is a Code Hydra?” Ilya hisses. Steve tries to shake him free—he needs to get back to the control room; he heard shots and his partner is in there. But Ilya is out _here_ and—

“I don’t know. It’s _not_ a code.” No, he can’t go back to the control room. They’re either all right or they aren’t, and whatever is happening won’t stop the oncoming kaiju from wiping out everyone in the Shatterdome. His only real option is to continue. He keeps low and continues sprinting for the hangar, Ilya keeping pace beside him.

Try as he might, he can’t get Natasha on the radio again. That means that when they get to Guardian Fang, they need to lower the Conn-Pod and then start her warmup manually. Ilya insists on having his spinal clamp attached before he’ll return the favor for Steve, and they’re both reaching to grab their helmets when someone simply tells them,

“Stop.”

A guard stands behind them, sidearm aimed calmly at Steve’s chest.

“You don’t want to do this,” Steve says slowly. Beside him, Ilya tenses and bares his teeth angrily. But he’s a mechanic, not a fighter, and the guard doesn’t so much as waver—Steve is the much bigger threat between the two, with his training and experience. “If that kaiju makes it here, everyone will die.”

“Sometimes lives are the currency with which the future is paid for,” the guard responds evenly. It’s a fanatic’s rhetoric, and Steve goes cold hearing it. There’s no arguing fanatics; they’re dangerous for a reason. But this one has him at gunpoint and he’s too far away to engage in hand-to-hand combat, so logic is all he has.

“How does this help the future? Kaiju are what we fight against; not each other. We’re serving a crucial part in protecting our future. That’s the job. So put the gun down and let me do my job.”

“Why do you think there haven’t been any more world wars?” the guard bursts out. Steve’s eyes widen in surprise. “Yeah, you’re a smart guy. Figured it out, didn’t you? It’s because we’re too busy fighting those kaiju to go after each other.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ilya scoffs.

“Is it? My great-grandfather died because someone didn’t like the color of his skin, but now shit like that couldn’t matter less to anyone. So long as you can do a job, keep the big, bag monsters at bay, no one cares what language you speak or what you look like. Just like you two—you think that even fifty years ago, you would’ve been allowed to look at each other the way you do? No, you would’ve been kicked out of the PPDC. Dishonorable discharge; completely ruined, just because of what you want between someone’s legs. _Now_ you’re too valuable to lose over something like that. Because the kaiju keep coming.”

“That’s the problem,” Steve jumps in, one hand out to stop Ilya, who looks like he’s going to physically attack the guard at any second. “They keep coming. They’ll wipe out humanity. Aren’t we better off flawed than dead? What about free will?”

“Free will,” the guard scoffs. “Look what people have done with that so far. Hydra won’t doom humanity; we’ll save it with _their_ help. You think—”

The sharp sound of gunfire makes Steve flinch, expecting to feel the white-hot blaze of a bullet wound at any moment. The body is funny sometimes, taking long moments to register pain. And then— 

“Oh my God, I shot him.”

“Well, it wasn’t a very _good_ shot. You only got his leg.”

Steve stares down at the man writhing on the floor in front of him, then extends a foot to kick away the gun he’s still barely holding on to. Then he looks up at the two cadets blinking owlishly at him. Billy is still holding his gun in the recommended firing position, two hands and feet firmly planted. The expression of baffled shock on his face isn’t standard procedure, though.

“What are you two doing here?”

“Sorry, sir,” Cassie says without a single ounce of remorse. “We saw someone duck in here and with all the stuff going on outside, we thought maybe someone was going to do something with the jaeger and—”

“You were going to try to pilot it, weren’t you?” Ilya interrupts sternly. Steve takes in the peek of armor under their jackets and frowns.

The two glance at each other, then back to the two men.

“We were, but we couldn’t find the spinal clamps,” Billy confirms. “But we hoped…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, because it obviously doesn’t matter what they’d hoped.

“Get ready to disengage the jaeger.” Ilya’s tone is one of easy command. It surprises Steve to hear it, but the cadets are too used to the manner and respond almost without thinking, heading for the nearest ladder to find the controls.

Ilya climbs into the jaeger first, prying up the lower access panel to get at the overrides inside. Guardian Fang hums to life around them, console lighting up, the door to the Conn-Pod sliding closed. Steve fits his helmet on and carefully places his feet into the clamps, then straightens up and attaches the port in his helmet to the rest of the jaeger. To his left, he can see Ilya doing the same thing, albeit with clumsier and more exaggerated movements. The relay gel drains out of their helmets and into the rest of the suit; Steve’s skin prickles with the familiar buzz of the circuitry waking up, spinal clamp already starting to interface.

_:Guardian Fang, do you copy?:_

It would be almost funny if the situation weren’t so dire. “Copy, ground control. Initiate Drift.”

He exchanges a last look with Ilya and closes his eyes, trying hard to clear his mind. He needs this to work; needs to—

_feel the breath in his lungs the gentle in and out and in and out so calm under his hands so unlike the nervous energy of before, the sadness he could see on his face, the slump of his shoulders when he realized what was coming, the anger Ilya had brewed that wasn’t anger at all but fear of_  
Bucky lost forever in this void only hurthurthurt _taking his place how can he ever have anything else there again? only to find it scabbing over because of another pair of silver eyes and a gentle smile familiar but different everything so close to before even the cold_  
waking up to sterile white walls and the beep of a monitor left side on fire but somehow empty, hurting and numb, and everything is blank not his name not this place nothing but the thought of ‘hospital’ and ‘injury’ and almost-panic held at bay by opiates  
feeling high and laughing even though Bucky looks worried by his bedside because ‘what’d you have to go and do that for, Stevie, they coulda busted more than your face’

It’s like hitting a wall. Blank, featureless, smooth. And straining to reach the other side. Just beyond, where Ilya is, where he can feel him reaching back.

_falling amidst sparking twisting metal, the rush of water all around cold so cold that it burns, dragging him down into darkness so black he can’t tell up from down or if his eyes are open or closed. die, he’s going to die like this,wrapped in ice and he doesn’t want that, isn’t ready, struggles against it but there’s no air even in his drivesuit_  
heaving in a breath, straining because he didn’t guard his middle well enough and someone got him in the solar plexus, Bucky reaches down to pick him back up  
why would he want to hurt Steve?  
because Bucky is the one who put him down there, laughing, telling him he needed to learn to guard his left side because ‘I can’t  
be there all the time, punk’  
flowers in spring and fireworks in summer and birthdays and laughter and a funeral in sunshine like the world has no respect for the grief going on inside it. holding hands because it’s what comes naturally, signing up together bunking together fighting together or just fighting. inside of a Conn-Pod just like this one, look to your left (your right) see the person who is the other-you the not-you neural handshake strong

Steve takes what feels like the first real breath he’s had in five years.

“Guardian Fang, ready for go.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaiju are often named by physical descriptors or else off a pre-generated list (the same way hurricanes are). “Kani” is simply Japanese for “crab.”
> 
> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	10. Chapter 10

Drifting with Bucky now isn’t like it was before. It’s confusing to have two sets of memories, one that he’s never shared, that he has almost nothing in common with. But it’s still him, still Bucky—even if Bucky is Ilya or Ilya is Bucky, he loves them both. All of him.

_:Guardian Fang, prepare to disengage.:_

The scaffolding around them withdraws slow but steady, the jaeger filling the extra space with a sound like a sigh. They move their hands, checking the interface. Clench, unclench, testing the dual shields. Everything is in order.

“ETA on that kaiju?” Ilya asks. They’re already moving, one foot in front of the other. The hangar door opens for them slowly, people dotting the launching pad looking up to see the colossal machine. They have to move carefully if they don’t want to tread on anyone, projecting their movements as much as they can. The figures on the ground scatter in all directions.

 _:Twenty-five minutes have elapsed since Officer Carter made that announcement,:_ Billy reports. That gives them ten minutes to get as close to the kaiju as they can.

“A mile if we’re lucky,” Steve mutters. It’ll be a struggle to keep it from landfall that close, but they can try.

They’re only three steps into the water when Cassie yelps, _:On your seven, sir—Guardian Fang—seven!:_

They barely get an arm up in time to block a shell, staring in shock at the turret that fired on them. One of their own, firing at their exposed back. Fighting on two fronts will be next to impossible but they’re going to have to do it because the alternative is worse. They back up slowly, still trying to cover their retreat, filling with dread as a second turret swings slowly around…

…And keeps going. Until it’s pointed at the first. They can’t afford to stop completely but they slow down to watch as Vahsel fires on itself, ammo exploding, tearing up their own Shatterdome in an effort to clear the way for Guardian Fang. So many lives lost, but more if they don’t finish this.

They run.

LOCCENT is still silent and Cassie and Billy will be all but blind, their visuals constrained to what they can see with the naked eye. Binoculars, if they can find any. The most reliable instrument will be their own cameras and the built-in radar, good for gross movements only, but it’s already pinging rapidly as the kaiju closes in on them.

The shelf is shallow here; more than enough that Kani has to surface before it ever reaches them. It’s like a tank; all hard blue-black shell and beady, inset eyes. One huge pincer like a fiddler crab braced across its body, a smaller one just visible between oversized legs that churn water into white froth. It looks impregnable.

_:Holy shit.:_

“Everything has a weakness,” Bucky reminds him. The same thing he’s said for years in the face of everything that’s ever tried to keep them down—illness, poverty, even Steve’s own pig-headedness. There’s only one response to that.

“So we’ll find it,” Steve says, echo of their childhood in his voice.

The kaiju makes the first move, massive claw swinging out like an inevitability. They raise their hands in time to block, catching it on their crossed arms, starting the superheating that will help them burn through all that armor. It twists and snaps at them, rotating its body in a clack of legs to grab hold of their side with the smaller claw. It pinches uncomfortably and they start to think maybe it isn’t too bad—but then it doesn’t stop. The pressure continues until they can feel the threat of it piercing skin and buckling metal, and still Kani presses forward with its primary weapon.

“Count of three?”

They don’t even wait; just heave as hard as they can and twist painfully against the secondary claw, bringing the shield down with everything they have. It barely makes a dent and they reposition to go for the joint, stretched thin with the effort of holding them still. It feels like they’re bleeding already, stress beginning to warp metal and the neural relay screaming injury. Wind up, time the extra boost—

The second blow lands with a hard _crack_ and a terrible shriek from the kaiju that rattles in their ears. It reacts fast, faster than them, swinging at their now-exposed side and sending them sprawling into the water. It’s a feat to get up once a jaeger is down; they’re both out of practice, and the kaiju is almost on top of them like it wants to trample them underfoot. It probably does. Water boils as they extend their own claws, metal red-hot, and dig them into the first piece of kaiju that comes into reach. It doesn’t work—just drags them along with it while it tries to shake them off, their claws scraping and feets scrambling to get under them.

_Sometimes, Ilya, it is better to bend than to break._

The memory comes from nowhere but Steve follows it all the same, following the warm feeling of the voice and Bucky’s sudden acceptance. They let go, absorbing the blows from its legs, waiting for the chance to—

They surge up, full extension towards its belly, still armored but more finely articulated, more moving pieces, more joints exposed. Wedging one shield into the join of a leg and a body makes Kani rear back, its cry muffled underwater. They dig in and follow it up, finding purchase on the ground to stagger back to their feet before they’re jostled free. They’re much closer to shore than when they started, but they still have to give ground before the enraged onslaught they’ve provoked, blocking hard and hoping for an opportunity to get inside its range.

A glancing blow sends their right arm skittering across hardened flesh, leaving their midsection open. The kaiju takes the bait, coming in with its smaller claw, not noticing the play of Guardian Fang’s chest plates as they rearrange to make an opening for its ballistics. They don’t wait to line up a shot, too close to miss; just fire blindly and accept that the impact might damage them almost as much as their target. 

They’re in before the smoke has even cleared—it’s a risky move, but they don’t have time. They’re already almost on top of land, feet grinding into heavy rocks, half the screen taken up with the landmass to their right. Only a quick twist, torso dipping back to slide under the oncoming pincer, keeps them from being clotheslined. Their backs strain to keep them out of the water, hydraulics screaming with the effort, and they use the momentum to swing an arm out, aiming for the gap in its shell that they pray are the eyes. The shield is almost too big to fit, tip wedging in even with the claws extended, the steam of vaporizing water pluming out in the wake of the superheated edges. Bucky nods and they close that hand into a fist, pumping it to draw out the needle hidden in the wrist. It sinks in while the kaiju flails at them, heavy blows landing but not nearly fast enough to stop them.

A moment of vacuumed silence, then a fierce pressure in their wrist; dull _whomp_ and a quick jolt and suddenly the kaiju loses all control. Coordination goes out the window as it seizes, legs skittering in all directions, finally dislodging Guardian Fang in its flailing. A final jerk and it goes still, a trail of bright blue oozing slowly down its front as it crashes in slow motion, half on land and half still in the ocean. It’s only then, chests heaving, harsh panting filling their ears, that they realize they’re being hailed.

 _:Guardian Fang, this is LOCCENT. Report in.:_ That’s Natasha’s voice, firm and demanding. From the sound of it, this isn’t the first time she’s said something.

“Guardian Fang with a confirmed kill.” They look down at it, prodding it with one pointed shield. “How are you doing, LOCCENT?”

_:Admirably, thank you. There was a dust-up here, but we’re working to get it under control. The marshal is en route with backup—in the meantime, insurgents have been pushed into the east and west wings. Bays in the main dome are open for your use.:_  
  


* * *

  
  
Natasha makes it clear as they dock that there’s no other assignment for them at the moment. “Let the professionals handle it,” are her exact words, and she either cuts the transmission or ignores Steve’s protest that they _are_ professionals. As promised, the central dome is clear and the bay whirs to life as soon as they’re in place. In the space of a breath, between settling Guardian Fang and disengaging from the Drift, Steve gets a last burst of thought from Bucky—love, frustration, anger. All dear and familiar even if— _especially_ if—directed at Steve.

He’s barely gotten himself free of the foot clamps when Bucky storms past him, already headed for the Drivesuit Room with his lips pressed into a tight line. His posture is stiff and offended and Steve hurries after him, desperate to keep his eyes on him like he might not be real. Like he might vanish if he turns a corner without Steve there.

He makes it through the door just in time to dodge the helmet thrown back at him, sidestepping so it sails harmlessly past. Bucky didn’t throw it with real intent, judging by the lackluster way it clatters to the ground, but something about it hurts all the same. Steve goes in anyway, because he still has that itchy feeling under his skin that tells him that he needs to _see_.

“Stupid!” Bucky shouts, pacing the room like a caged animal. “That was stupid, Steve, even for you!” His fingers shake as he tries to undo the buckles of his drivesuit armor. “You were going to pilot by yourself? Because by some miracle you managed it once— _once_! What if I hadn’t stopped you? What the hell were you even thinking?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer but Bucky cuts him off.

“No, you know what? You _weren’t_ thinking, were you? Just hop in a jaeger, hope you can manage the neural load through stubbornness alone?”

The first time they get to speak to each other in what feels like another lifetime, and this is what Bucky wants to say? It doesn’t matter that Steve has just been inside his head, has felt what he felt and knows what he thought. This is too much, and his temper flares with it. He tosses his own helmet aside.

“You were gone!” Steve yells.

“I was _right here_!”

“No, you were _gone_! You were gone and I felt it—” he taps the side of his own head hard enough to hurt, too angry to measure his own force “— _here_. And here.” He grabs at the space over his heart, fingers sliding over the smooth carbon still protecting him. The space that never stopped aching all those years after Bucky’s death. “And I kept going, because the mission wasn’t done and that’s what we do, isn’t it? We finish the mission? Tell me you would have done different!”

“What I would or wouldn’t do isn’t the issue!”

“The _hell_ it isn’t. You couldn’t even remember who you were and you still ended up here. It’s what we do, Buck!”

“No it isn’t!” Bucky roars over him. “We _save_ each other! _That’s_ what we do!”

His words knock the breath out of Steve, more effective than any punch. The memories, the little things they’ve said and done together over the years—the things he thought were best forgotten because they were too painful—all come flooding back. Hauling each other out of trouble, puppy piles in bed, Bucky holding his hand all night the time Steve caught pneumonia. Propping each other up, drying each others’ tears, keeping spirits aloft no matter what life threw their way. The whispered secrets in the dark and promises of forever that they always knew meant ‘I love you,’ long before those words were ever said. He can feel his lips move but he’s not sure what he’s saying; can’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. He only knows that Bucky has him, crowding into his space and tugging at his clothes, saying something back. Steve can read his lips even if he can’t hear his voice, the ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ and the soft way his mouth parts when he says his name: “Steve.”

They’re desperate and hungry when they come together, hello and goodbye and sorrow and joy so tangled up that it’s impossible to tell which is which. He only knows that Bucky’s hands frame his face while he backs Steve into a wall, pawing at what’s left of his armor and Steve does the same, breaking apart occasionally to gasp for air and curse the clumsiness of their hands and the complex straps that keep them from finding each other’s skin. It’s made more difficult because they can’t seem to stop touching, twining fingers, tracing the lines of each other’s faces like it’s the first time.

Bucky manages first, a little _ha_ of triumph when he finds the zipper behind Steve’s circuitry suit and slides it down to bare his chest. Steve jerks and slams his head back into the wall when Bucky loses no time in biting down on the swell of one pec, sudden spike of lust shooting through him so fast it makes his eyelids flutter.

He whines high in his throat, gasping. “Oh, God, _Bucky_.”

“I noticed you still like this,” Bucky grunts in tones of satisfaction. “Always were sensitive.”

“Don’t make fun.” He can feel the blush staining his cheeks, probably visible even under his beard, but Bucky just chuckles darkly and sucks a nipple into his mouth, worrying at it with his teeth, one hand pressed to the small of Steve’s back to encourage him to arch into the sensation.

“It’s one of the things I like about you, Stevie. About your body. Don’t be shy, _любимая_.”

“You know I—” he almost bites his tongue when Bucky manages to get a hand around his cock despite the awkward angle, panting around the tight arousal pooling in his stomach. “You know I don’t know what that means— _ah!_ ” He yelps when Bucky bites a little too hard, the pinch of his teeth sharp on Steve’s clavicle.

“It means ‘treasure,’” Bucky murmurs into his skin, flutter of his lips making Steve shiver. “It means ‘sweetheart’ and ‘dear one’ and ‘beloved.’” He switches sides, running his thumb over the head of Steve’s cock firmly, calluses providing a maddening contrast of textures as it slides over sensitive skin. Steve pushes his hips up into the sensation and feels Bucky grin at the motion, his grip firming.

“You always said _I_ was the sappy one,” Steve pants. Bucky is stroking him now, a modest pace that curls Steve’s foreskin over and then down, until it starts to tug. And then that slow, easy slide back up that makes his knees tremble. It only gets better when Bucky leans into him enough that Steve can feel his erection too, still trapped under the drivesuit, and he wants to get his hands on it so bad. “You’ve got too much on.”

“Hmm?”

“Your suit. Off. I want to f-feel.” Bucky’s hand speeds up and Steve is pretty sure he’s starting to lose the feeling in his toes. “Buck, slow down!”

He does, pulling back just enough to look Steve in the eye. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s just—I’m not gonna last like that,” he admits sheepishly.

“Is that all?” Bucky firms his grip and picks up the pace, taking Steve’s lips in a kiss that muffles his surprised shout. “That’s convenient, because I don’t need you to.”

He’s relentless, attacking the side of Steve’s neck with his teeth, his hips shuddering forward like he can’t help but chase the same pleasure. Steve doesn’t even know how he manages to fumble Bucky’s suit off—maybe he helps him, he may never be sure—but now he’s exposed enough for Steve to take him in hand. Take them _both_ in hand, when Bucky grunts and cedes control, his own hands roaming across Steve’s skin, pushing the suit away and down to grab at his ass and grind them together. The angle is awkward and the kisses are sloppy and Bucky’s beard is going to leave a red rash across his chest and shoulders and absolutely nothing could be better.

Bucky slams his left hand against the wall beside Steve’s head as he comes, mouth open and eyebrows drawn together like he’s surprised at his own pleasure drawn from Steve’s hands. Steve can only watch, enraptured, still moving with him as warmth spreads from both outside and within, blooming in his heart and his groin until it’s overwhelming and he has to struggle to keep his eyes open and on Bucky while his climax crashes through him. He doesn’t want to miss anything, not a single second of it, and his hand must slow because Bucky is there again, never left him, not really, milking him through it until Steve’s knees buckle and threaten to drop him to the floor. He grips Bucky’s arms, hands sticky but uncaring, and they slide together to the floor in a huddle of half-discarded clothes and labored breaths and disbelieving chuckles. 

It takes some time for their breathing to even out. Bucky wipes his hand against his suit and reaches out to pull Steve closer, tracing a wandering path up and down his spine. Steve leans into it, heart still racing with leftover adrenaline but calming with every pass of Bucky’s hand. He tucks his head against Bucky’s neck, which puts his at eye level with the metal-and-scar mess of his left shoulder. Steve reaches up to touch it gently, metal surprisingly warm under his fingertips.

“…I’m sorry,” he whispers between them. There’s a long pause, and then Bucky resumes stroking his back.

“Sorry for what, Stevie?”

“I didn’t—” He hides his face against Bucky’s chest, tears threatening to choke him. “I didn’t look for you more. And I went and fell in love with someone else.”

“What?” Bucky sounds startled, mostly, and not angry like Steve thought he would be. “Who? You never mentioned anyone—is it Natalia?”

“No!” Steve pulls back to stare up at him in shock. Natasha? “No, I meant Ilya. I didn’t know for sure if he was you or… But then I just… And you—he was so kind to me. Ilya _saw_ me. And he was there even when he didn’t need to be, and he was just so _good_ even when he was being an asshole. But what if it hadn’t been you?”

“Steven Grant Rogers, look at me.”

Steve shifts so he can look at Bucky properly, as ordered. Bucky’s expression is a familiar mix of exasperated and amused and it hurts a little to realize that Steve had never forgotten what that looks like.

“You’re apologizing for falling in love with me. Twice.”

“That’s not—!”

“And even if you hadn’t,” Bucky continues, as if Steve hadn’t spoken, “if I never remembered being Bucky, or if you’d fallen in love with someone completely different, so what? Keeping yourself alone and miserable wasn’t going to bring me back. We’re going to talk about that later, by the way.” He puts a finger against Steve’s lips to stop his protest. “I’m proud of you. You saw who I was and didn’t try to change that, even though you knew.”

“That’s the thing—I didn’t know, not for sure.”

Bucky frowns. “Natalia knew. She threatened to tell you if I didn’t come forward myself. I didn’t, so I thought she’d already told you.”

“She what?” He shoots upright, dislodging Bucky’s hand. “She told me you—”

Only, when he thinks about it, she hadn’t actually _said_ Ilya and Bucky weren’t the same person. He’s drawn that conclusion himself, and she told him to ask Ilya about it. Bucky tugs at him, and Steve subsides against his shoulder. “I’ve Drifted with her. I should have known how cunning she could be,” he grumbles.

Bucky chuckles. “In a way, I’m glad. You might’ve hurt yourself, twisting everything up inside and trying to sort through it on your own.”

Steve is still trying to figure out how to respond to that when the door to the Drivesuit Room swings open. They scramble to cover themselves with something—anything, really—and Steve manages to pull part of his suit over his lap and Bucky grabs a piece of discarded armor just as Natasha steps inside. She eyes them both for a long moment, sprawled against each other with Steve slowly turning red and Bucky averting his gaze, and scoffs.

“Is now _really_ the time?”

“Natasha,” Steve says, voice as steady as possible, “let me introduce you to James Barnes. Although I think maybe you’ve already met him?”

“A long time ago, and more recently as someone else. Should I assume things have changed?”

“Drifting changes a lot,” Bucky tells her quietly. “And I want to thank you for trying to keep this one in line while I was… gone.”

“Not that it was much use, it turns out.”

Steve winces when Bucky looks up and smiles and her, a charming little thing that spells out a lot of trouble for Steve’s future. If they survive to have one. He clears his throat pointedly. “I assume you came here for a reason?” he prompts.

“Yes. Fury’s landing soon and he wants you in mission control ASAP.” She nods to Steve, then glances sideways at Bucky. “Although, all things considered, I believe he’d be interested in seeing you, too.”

“We’ll be there in five,” Steve promises, although he makes no move to get up yet.

“Sure. Just don’t get distracted on the way,” she drawls. “And lock the door next time!”

Said door swings shut behind her and Steve lets out a breath, shoulders slumping with momentary defeat. “I’m never going to hear the end of this. Why are you laughing?”

“Because I’m happy.” Bucky’s smile makes it hard for him to kiss Steve, but he certainly tries his best.  
  


* * *

  
  
“I think we’ve solved it.” Tony looks practically manic, which isn’t necessarily unusual, except that Bruce looks almost as excited as Stark does. “How to track the kaiju whale-songs.”

“We haven’t tested it yet, of course, but the _theory_ if it is sound, and we can do it by altering equipment that we already have.” Bruce taps a console emphatically, like he thinks someone is going to argue with him about this. “It could take as little as two hours, no more than eighteen at most—”

“Do what you need to.” Fury ignores the little dance that Stark does in the background. “Sharon will escort you. Aside from everything that happened in _here_ , this is solid evidence of a coordinated attack and an unprecedented occurrence. If there’s a way to tap into their little radios—”

“Extremely low frequencies,” Bruce corrects.

“—then I want in and frankly I don’t care _what_ you call it.”

“Well, don’t expect a miracle.” Bruce nervously polishes his glasses with his shirt. “If this is their ‘language,’ it could take years to understand it. What we think we can do is sort of…” he sways his hand back and forth, “pick it up enough to get a lock on it; try to find out if we can ‘hear’ them before the Breach activity even starts.”

“Just knowing when they’re communicating could give us the upper hand, even if we don’t know to who or what they’re saying.”

Bucky squeezes his hand suddenly, grabbing Steve’s attention. “Something in the Drift,” he mutters, eyes flicking back and forth like he’s trying to track something invisible. “What was it?”

Steve isn’t sure if he should be worried or not, but he leans in all the same. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a memory from when—when I fell.” Bucky stumbles over his wording, but Steve knows what he means. “I can almost see it…”

Steve stares at the ground in concentration. Bucky’s memories had been odd when the connected, jumbled in the middle around the accident. Steve doesn’t blame him—the mind strives to protect itself, and the trauma was enough to make him forget the first time. It’s a wonder he remembered it at all, much less remembering it clearly. So he dives in as well, steadying out his breathing like he’s preparing for the Drift all over again, Bucky’s hand in his providing a tenuous connection.

There was the first impact, kaiju teeth rending metal. Not the memory Steve wants.

Pain lancing up his arm as it’s crushed.

The gut-punch shock of the ocean, bubbles pouring upward.

A pale flicker as he sinks, paler than the kaiju that took him down, just at the edge of his vision before he blacks out. _There._

“There was another kaiju in the water.”

Steve doesn’t know how loud he was speaking until everyone turns to look at him. “During the Nome incident. There was another kaiju.”

“Yes,” Fury tells them with exaggerated patience, “There were two kaiju, but we missed the second one when it latched on to the first; hid under its signal.”

“No, there was another one. A third.” Bucky this time, speaking slowly but with conviction. “Smaller, I think. I only caught a glimpse.”

“There’s no record of a third kaiju.” Fury watches them intently, looking for signs they’re lying. Steve knows he’ll find none.

“Well, it was there.”

“Cloaked, maybe? Could they do that?” Natasha murmurs.

“Cloaking sonar or radar? Hypothetically. But there are ways to sniff that out.” Tony swipes across a tablet and starts typing something in. “It depends on how often it moves, if we’re already looking for it, depth of the sonar…”

“But if we latch on to the communication frequency, if it’s talking to others we might be able to triangulate a rough location. _Very_ rough,” Bruce adds hastily. “It’s not like sonar or radar, where the overlap of the waves is close enough together to get a decent picture of something. These are long enough to traverse half the planet, more or less, so any overlap in waves is—”

“Can you tell me where one of them is or not?” Fury demands.

“Amethyst Hawk and Lady Thunder are on their way here, sir.” A communications officer with a cut on her cheek and scraped-up knuckles leans towards Marshal Fury. “Ushuaia Shatterdome isn’t happy, though.”

“Ask me if I care what they want,” Fury snorts. “As long as they send her. Get me an ETA. Rogers. Volkov.”

“Barnes, actually,” Natasha interjects mildly.

Fury visibly does a double-take and over his shoulder Steve can see Natasha’s self-satisfied grin. “Barnes?” He eyes Bucky for a few moments like he’s sizing him up. “That explains the Drift compatibility, at least. Not the resurrection part, but—”

“I’m a fucking genius.”

Fury’s eye twitches. “We’re well aware of your hubris, Stark, but if you just shut up for five more minutes—”

“It’s not hubris if can back it up. And I _am_ a genius. Certifiably, and also because I just did _this_.” He flips his tablet around so everyone else can see it, although only Bruce apparently understands why the choppily-animated graph is so important. Fury’s eye does that twitch again.

“What? No one else in here is a genius?”

“Is this the data from Tracer Spider?” Bruce asks excitedly. “Look at this—if you—can you run another noise reduction on this frequency?” He leans in to poke at the screen and Tony yanks his tablet back like a kid who doesn’t want to share.

“I could, but I don’t _need_ to run another noise reduction to be able to see what’s going on.”

“Well it would clean up the graph considerably.”

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” Sharon coughs, one eye on the marshal who, to be fair, does look moments away from shooting something. “Can you just tell us what this all means?”

“Tony,” Steve warns softly. Stark pouts a little but nods in his direction.

“I ran an algorithm on the feedback we got from Tracer Spider against some of the data we collected today. Some of it was unusable, but there’s enough left to be able to spot a few trends. There’s _this_ frequency, which shows increased activity after kaiju emerge.” He taps one of the gently moving lines. “The modifications we’re planning to make will help us pick out exactly how many ‘voices’ are here at the same time, but it definitely sees more traffic the more kaiju are present. Now _this_...” 

He zooms back out and scrolls to a differently highlighted portion. By now, everyone but the marshal is leaning in to listen more intently, and Steve can tell that Tony is basking in the attention. From the crooked smile on Bucky’s face, he sees it too.

“This is a different frequency, but only slightly. Think of it like… like someone who sings soprano versus baritone. There’s a range, and it makes a difference, but not a huge one. Except when you want to tell something apart. This chart progresses by time, marked by kaiju emergence.”

Bucky exhales softly. “It starts before the other voices do.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Tony points at him. “That’s the thing! If you assume it _is_ a voice and not some other pre-event activity.”

“One of those Hydra people mentioned something about help from kaiju,” Steve says suddenly.

“That’s right—there’s one in holding that keeps rambling about the end of days and summoning the dark beasts.” Natasha trades a look with Sharon. “I thought he was just a fanatic.”

“I did too,” Carter agrees. “But if there’s a kernel of truth to it?”

Marshal Fury tilted his head to the side challengingly. “So you think some kooky religious organization learned how to control kaiju?”

“No. I think someone found out how to weaponize them and is holding on to that secret,” Natasha says mildly. Her body posture relaxes like a cat showing supreme unconcern. “But if you want to overlook the possibility then be my guest.”

“It would explain why the Breach opened twice in one day instead of releasing all three kaiju at once. And how everyone knew to attack. They jammed communications first,” Tony adds, looking positively delighted. “It’s brilliant. Evil, but brilliant. If it’s true.”

“I don’t care how smart they are; I care if we can stop them,” Fury grits out.

“Naturally. They have to be transmitting somehow, so it’s a matter of triangulating the signal. But… it’s still just theory,” Bruce says hesitantly.

“Someone knew when to attack us. I’ve got moles to deal with here and probably other Shatterdomes; possibly other areas of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps. We’ve got kaiju demonstrating complex strategy that includes attacking points of highest vulnerability. I’m down one pilot and up a dead one. Let’s just say that I’m willing to take a little something on faith, Doctor Banner.” Fury sighs and rubs at his forehead. “I want to be able to locate them and move out as close to Amethyst Hawk and Lady Thunder’s arrival as possible, understood? If there’s actually a way to contact and direct kaiju, there’s no limit on when that Breach might open again.”  
  


* * *

  
  
_:Visuals are shit.:_ Valkyrie drawls. Steve and Bucky can still see Lady Thunder to their far left and just ahead of them, sweeping the ocean floor with her floodlights.

They had only about three hours to eat and rest before Bruce announced that they’d narrowed down the most likely source of emissions to only a ten-mile square. Lady Thunder runs point as the veteran team, with Amethyst Hawk and Guardian Fang flanking. Steve is worried about Kate—for all that she’s a fully-fledged ranger, this is still only her third op, and it would test the endurance of even the most seasoned pilots.

“She’s going to be fine,” Bucky tells him quietly, sensing his anxiety. “They have more stamina when they’re that young. Remember Wanda and Pietro?”

Which is exactly the problem: he’s remembering Wanda and Pietro. The way they took on the world like they’d live forever. The same way Steve and Bucky had. They’d looked up to Steve, too. Just like Kate.

“None of that was your fault, Stevie. You did everything that could be asked of you and more.”

 _:Eyes ahead,:_ Fury snaps.

Steve can feel the way Bucky rolls his eyes. They’re capable of doing both things at once.

They’re about to take another step forward when something rumbles underfoot. An alarm starts going off inside the jaeger, sound echoing through the comm link, coming for four places at once: Breach activity detected. Kaiju warning.

 _:Pretty sure that means we’re getting close,:_ Clint says dryly. _:Should we pick up the pace?:_

 _:I doubt we can run under this kind of pressure, but we can try,:_ Thor agrees. _:If we’re lucky—:_

 _:Don’t jinx it you idiot.:_ Over the comm, Val sighs. _:Gods, why do you test me?:_

 _:Looks like either a Cat 4 or two Cat 2’s,:_ Hill relays. _:But the readings haven’t stabilized yet.:_

 _:We’re getting something,:_ Kate says suddenly. _:It’s kind of big, but I don’t think it’s just part of the shelf. Switching to sonar.:_ Amethyst Hawk grinds to a halt while the other two swing around to flank her. _:Could be man-made. Should we approach?:_

 _:Water displacement’s gone up. Holy—:_ Hill’s voice vanishes. They can hear cursing in the background and then Fury’s on the line instead.

_:Either find what you’re looking for or get the hell out of there. You can’t risk your seals that far under and either our instruments are broken or you’re looking at three Category 3 kaiju.:_

“We should turn back,” Steve mutters, but then—

_:Too late. Guardian Fang, on your nine!:_

They don’t even know who says it; they just react, crouching low and bringing their shields up in time for something huge to scrape past them, skin dragging across the metal in a heavy rumble.

“It went past us!”

_:Shit!:_

A light off to their right lurches as someone else is hit, and then again from another direction. It feels like they’re everywhere at once, sleek and finned like prehistoric fish. 

_:We need a tighter formation. Close ranks.:_ Thor has the command of a natural-born leader as Lady Thunder falls back towards her compatriots, her fists glowing in preparation of an attack. _:We’re going to fight our way out.:_

Radar is their best shot now, the three kaiju circling fast enough to whip up sediment from the ocean floor to puff into clouds around the trio. Fins and tails smack into them, taunting them, occasional snap of jaws closing in. They have to be careful not to run into each other they’re so close, have to stand their ground. There’s no way this is a coincidence—six kaiju in a single day is unprecedented.

“They’re definitely being called here.” Bucky answers Steve’s question aloud. “And I’m with you, Stevie. Til the end of the line.”

 _:That sounds like they’re going to do something stupid,:_ Val says. _:You boys going to do something stupid?:_

“Hell yeah we are. Cover us.”

It’s not like when they were young. Steve knows the risk they’re taking. He knows what mortality feels like, and loss and grief. He knows there’s something more than just the mission. But he also has no intention of leaving this place alive if Bucky isn’t with him, and for once the world is working in his favor. If they break a seal here, both of them will die and this time there will be no coming back. Bucky’s disapproval flickers over his grim humor, but Steve still feels a laugh bubble up in his chest. It’s not funny at all, but he’s here with Bucky and he thought that was impossible and now they’re going to press their luck and do one more impossible thing.

A bolt goes shooting past them, almost clipping their shoulder. They spare a glance to look—two of the three kaiju are bearing down on them, leaving only one to hold the other two jaegers at bay.

 _:We can’t bait them into staying!:_ Kate yells in frustration. _:Guardian Fang, we’re on our way._

For better or for worse, whatever they’re looking for is coming into view. Definitely manmade, there’s something off to the side that winks in their lights. Something sideswipes them, almost tipping them over, but the saltwater gives them just enough buoyancy to roll. It’s nerve-wracking, letting themselves tumble, praying for their feet to hit the ground exactly when they tell them to. Sweat drips down the side of Steve’s face and the middle of Bucky’s back and their breathing is already harsh, blood oxygen levels blinking in a rapid up-down that they both ignore. Another bolt hits them in the leg and they go down, pain momentarily surging through the nerves there as the feedback from the jaeger crashes through their systems. Then it numbs, dulls to a manageable throb that nonetheless lets them know the damage that’s been dealt.

Never mind that, it’s not important. Only critical damage matters, damage to the Conn-Pod or the reactor, and extremities aren’t part of that. And then Amethyst Hawk is there, booth railguns firing into the space beside them and finding their marks, slamming one kaiju off-course. Thor and Val are yelling something and a different kaiju is screaming and they have to ignore it all for now.

Patterns, though, it’s all patterns. Why would they ignore the others at expense to themselves? Even now, the one with two holes through its tail keeps coming at them. They have to crouch again to avoid another pass and the maneuver gives them a glimpse of Lady Thunder, not so far off but visible mostly by the gleam of her lights and is she grappling one of them? Too high off the ground not to, the other rangers fight to keep their target bodily pinned, probably using their freeze plate to best advantage. It’s a crazy move but one that they have to admire. One that they consider when they’re sent flying, twisting and clawing until they hit the ground, digging their claws in deep to stop their momentum and get back on their feet.

They’re even closer now; close enough to see a pale form floating by the metal structure, large glass ring around it, heavy chains weighing it down. Kaiju? But it’s small in comparison to those in the water, Category 2 at best, and barely moving at all.

Guards circling, ignoring their own injuries. Frenzied, trying to push them back, away. Deep resonance, reaching every one. Coordinated attacks, moving like one unit.

“It’s a queen,” Bucky breathes. “They’re guarding a queen. It’s not—it’s not a fucking antenna; it’s a queen!”

Something slams into them again and they lash out, hanging on while something tries to sweep them away. They kick hard with their feet, engaging the ground spikes like it’s terrain they can’t run fast enough on. The tips of the shields start to sink in to blackening flesh and the water beneath their feet starts to fluoresce blue and then there’s a heavy thump that jolts it out of their grip. Another hole in it, a chunk torn from the spine, and it can only squirm and snap uselessly with its powerful tail disconnected from the rest of its body. Still dangerous, but not enough to stop them if it’s not the goal.

_:Laying suppressing fire. Go get ‘em, Guardian Fang.:_

Steve can imagine Clint giving them a lazy salute and then the water churns around them as Amethyst Hawk unloads. They use the cover to get closer, moving slower than they want but the debris surrounding them is camouflage too good to waste. They could use the missiles but what if they fail to penetrate? They need to be sure; need to be able to confirm a kill.

And then all at once they’re upon it. It’s so small up close, barely as big as they are, eyes scabbing grey at the edges and limbs limp and wrinkled. Atrophied, maybe. Sickly. Its jaw drops open and a high wail reaches them, almost mournful in its call. There are metal protrusions driven into its skull, the skin slowly growing to meet it, already partway absorbed.

They reach out and grab one metal spike, connected by a thick wire that disappears into the clear ring at their feet. Turn it sharply, something black pluming the water around them, and pull. It comes out slowly, scraping against thick bone, more blood spilling out. The wail gets louder and they grab another one, pulling faster this time. Something throws them forward; teeth crunch into their midsection and radiate agony through their bodies, but they’re so close. Another one, wrenching it hard now, all their weight behind it and then—

Everything stops.

The high keening, the grinding pain, the enraged roars from behind them, all stop. They turn slowly, dislodging a slack jaw from around their waist. The kaiju that was locked around them seems alive but dead, eyes open, unseeing but no fatal damage done to its body.

_:What the hell is going on down there?:_

_:I don’t know, sir. Everything just… stopped.:_ Thor’s voice is filled with caution and wonder all in one.

Steve looks down at the spike in Guardian Fang’s hands. Turns it over slowly. It looks like the old-fashioned neural spikes—the ones that were used before the drivesuits were perfected. The ones that drive deep into the brain to enact a Drift. Bucky heats the edge of a shield and slices through the thick cable. 

Fury will want to see this.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


	11. Chapter 11

All three jaegers are down for repairs. The crushing pressure of the oceanic trench does no favors for the pilots, either. All six suffer from exhaustion, both mental and physical. As Bucky predicted, Kate bounces back the fastest.

The facility the found yields nothing but bodies, each with a cyanide capsule clenched between their teeth. But there are computers—data erased but, Tony assures them, not completely gone. And they have a name: Hydra. It’s a start.

There’s no telling how deep the infection runs. How many of the other Breaches have small queens enslaved. If any of them do at all. If the Antarctic Breach is an anomaly. They doubt it.

It’s not easy. It’s not going to _be_ easy, second-guessing people they thought were allies, having to watch their backs. But they have a small pool of people to rely on. And they have each other.

When Bucky wakes from nightmares of cold and darkness and falling, Steve wakes with him and slowly coaxes him back into the warmth. When Steve panics, the feeling of something lost still lodged deep within his psyche, Bucky grounds him and brings him home. They talk for hours. Days. What to say to Bucky’s family, both old and new. How to break it to each of them. Steve’s guilt over his own love, which Bucky insists is never misplaced. Bucky’s life outside of war, for the brief time he was allowed to live it. What it means to have more than one chance at life and love.

No, moving on isn’t easy. But it’s worth it.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you so much for the very bottom of our hearts! Drop us kudos, comments, come visit us on social media—we're happy to have you!

**Author's Note:**

> Come and find Sable [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and Alby @artgroves on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) and [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
